Loyalty to loyalty
by Lucia di L
Summary: Robert's Rebellion from the POV of Sandor Clegane, Jon Connington and Eddard Stark. A boy's first times, a man struggling with his feelings and a brother's fears. Thanks to my beta reader, Underthenorthernlights!
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: all characters belong to George R. R. Martin.**

**Chapter 1**

**Sandor**

Footsteps echoed in the spiral staircase and as they seemed to come closer, he did his best to lie there on the pallet, perfectly still under the rough blanket someone had tossed on his curled up form. The wet cloth on his forehead, supposed to reduce his fever, had slipped and blinded him. His heart skipped a beat when the door creaked open.

"The orphan is here," a harsh voice said.

There was nothing pleasant or kind in this masculine voice. It only described his situation: a boy who had lost his father and ended up in this strange and big castle where nobody waited for him. He was a fool if he ever expected to find compassion in this voice.

"And what do you want me to do with him?" a second man asked.

This voice was different; softer, yet determined and straightforward. A commander's voice exuding impatience. This one had forgotten a long time ago what it was to have his orders questioned. _Could it be him? Please don't send me back to Gregor..._

"Why do you ask?" the first man replied. "If I speak my mind, you won't listen to me. You never listen to my advice..."

"I have no time for this, Gerion. I asked you what you wanted to show me in the maester's tower and said you'd better not waste my time."

No matter who he was, he didn't need to raise his voice to make everyone feel his anger.

"Is he dead?" he added, without the slightest hint of concern or curiosity. His tone revealed all this bored him: the never-ending staircase, the grim room, the form laying on the pallet.

"No, he's not, though he collapsed at the gates. How far is Clegane keep? Thirty, maybe forty miles, as the raven flies. I guess the boy didn't eat for some days," Gerion said.

The man's suppositions were not wrong, but he was wide of the mark. Sandor heard slow footsteps coming closer and someone stopping in front of the pallet.

"Let's have a look at him," the smooth voice commanded.

A hand grabbed the woolen blanket, exposing his ragged figure and the cloth was removed, leaving a wet trail on his face. His limbs were shaking, but he clenched his jaw and tried not to move. When he opened his eyes, he saw Tywin Lannister leaning over him. Long-legged and fair-haired, The Warden of the West, former Hand of the King, looked like a bird of prey with his aquiline nose. Until that day, he had only seen his father's liege lord twice, and only caught sight of him: he wasn't supposed to meet such an important man, he was only his father's youngest son. _And Father didn't want me to take away Lord Tywin's appetite if he ever looked at my face._ On the left, a younger version of Tywin waited for his orders. Tywin Lannister was staring at him but his green eyes didn't really see him, they focused on his scars. He didn't seem like he was ready to vomit his dinner, though.

"So, it was true," Tywin stated. "Burnt from hairline to chin on one side. And that? Is this his bone I see on his jaw?"

The lord of Casterly Rock had spoken about him as if he was not here, ignoring his pleading eyes. Worse still, under this unsettling gaze, he felt like an animal or an object Tywin Lannister had come upon. The man had not decided yet what he would do with him. His heart beat wildly as he realized this was perhaps his only chance to stay alive. Forgetting his fever and his weak limbs, he tried to sit up on the pallet but hardly managed to lean on his forearms.

"Send him back to his brother. We shouldn't even discuss about it. We should mind our own business."

He didn't know this voice, didn't even know there was someone else; this one must have stayed in some corner by the door because he couldn't see him behind the two other men.

"Seven Hells, Kevan!" Gerion exclaimed. "You know who did _that_ to him. You know who killed Clegane."

"We don't know anything," the third man retorted, coming closer. As soon as he stopped beside Gerion, Sandor saw another version of Tywin Lannister, with rounded shoulders and a massive jaw. "If we take for granted every gossip peasants spread about Gregor Clegane..."

"Why do you think this boy ran away?" Gerion insisted. "And you want to send him back to his brother? Is it a joke or something?"

"Gregor is now my Bannerman," Tywin pointed out. There was no emotion nor stance in his words, only facts.

"I'm sorry," Gerion said, losing his temper, "but as his liege lord, you have to protect your Bannermen and you have to judge them. And by the laws of gods and men, your precious Gregor is a kinslayer. What kind of message do you send to your other Bannermen? 'Kill your father if you feel like it, as long as you're loyal to me'?"

Anger and disgust made Gerion's face ugly and twisted his mouth. After all, when the youngest son of Tytos Lannister stood for him as he did, he was fighting two men at a time. An unfair fight: he should help Gerion. However, he felt so weak he struggled to stay still and tried to ignore the growing pain in his sore arms. He had to do something quickly.

"I can be useful, my lord," he said, locking eyes with Tywin. "I know how to fight. My father told me."

Kevan burst out laughing.

"Do you hear that?" he asked. "The brat's voice didn't even break!"

Sandor was aware his voice was still high-pitched but he was more than that; he was tall and well-built for a boy of his age. _And I learnt how to fight: there's not a squire in Westeros who has as many reasons as I have to learn swordplay._ Fever had made his eyes glisten and his cheeks red a while ago, but weakness had vanished as soon as Kevan Lannister expressed his disregard and there was only anger growing in him, tensing his muscles and distorting his features.

"How old are you, boy?" Kevan asked, repressing a smile.

"I'm ten-and-two, my lords. But I'm strong. And my father taught me everything about swordplay."

He didn't mean it, but his voice, high-pitched as ever, sounded like he was pleading. _I swear I'll never beg someone again. Not in my entire life._ He clenched his jaw when he understood that he could burst into tears. _Crying is for girls. I'm done with crying._

"He survived," Gerion stated, talking about him as if he was not here. "He's a tough one."

Tywin nodded; at least, his head moved slightly and made him feel suddenly more confident. The lord of Casterly Rock stood there, perfectly still for a while, his brothers waiting for his decision in an attitude revealing they were used to his silences.

"I have to think about it," Tywin finally said. "Give the boy some food. He will have a bath, too: he stinks. For now, I have more important matters to decide than the future of a boy."

Tywin Lannister turned around and walked away, his brother Kevan on his heels. The door creaked, there were footsteps in the spiral staircase and he was alone with Gerion.

* * *

After a bath, the fever was gone, he felt terribly hungry. When Gerion said the word 'kitchens', he couldn't help salivating and he gratefully followed the young man out of the grim room. Gerion ran down the stairs and only looked back once outside. They crossed the yard and Gerion waved at some men, pinched a squire's ear and seemed to forget him until they reached the pointed arch that lead to the kitchens. Long before they passed the threshold, when they were still walking in the dusty yard, Sandor could smell grease and onions, teasing him like Gerion had pinched the squire. He was starving and wouldn't be able to eat cleanly. He took a sharp intake of breath, tried to swallow the smell of roasting meat and came in.

He had never seen something like this; in a room whose dimensions equaled those of his father's hall, an army of cooks and servants ran from the hearth to the wide oak table, poured water, cut turnips, shelled peas, but only one, a big woman with grey hair tasted the dishes and gave orders. Smoke crept over one side of the big room, but nobody seemed to notice it, as the big woman wiped her hands on her apron, then waddled to the hearth, scrutinized the pork roasting on the spit and yelled at the other ones. The boys and girls around her hurried to the hearth, fearful and docile. Finally, the big woman turned around.

"What is it you brought me, m'lord?" the fierce woman said to Gerion, a cheeky look on her face. Sandor noticed her pale eyes and her straight hair escaping her head kerchief, as she stood a few yards from them, her hands on her massive hips. Gerion didn't react despite her lippy attitude; with a deft flourish, he showed Sandor, told her to give him some food and walked away.

"Do you have a name, boy?" she asked. Her voice sounded as soft as the smoke that made him cough.

"Sandor, of House Clegane."

He stepped forward. When they heard his name, some of the servants froze and stared at him. The big woman cursed in an undertone and squinted her eyes to see his features in the dim light. She wanted to catch a glimpse at his scars, but she seemed disappointed by what she saw; after bathing, he had flattened his long dark hair on the burnt side of his face. A valueless measure.

"He's burnt!" a scrawny girl exclaimed, sucking in deeply.

"Aye, he's burnt," the big woman said. "And I'm fat, for all I care."

She waddled toward him and gestured to the long table dividing the room in two.

"Have a sit, then. Fat Jeyne, they call me. Guess why." She turned around and pointed at the scrawny girl. "Maria, you stupid little wench, bring some stew!" When she gave orders, she seemed to caw like the ravens his father kept to send messages.

The scrawny girl didn't dare to look at him when she brought back a steamy bowl of stew; she put it on the table quickly, then almost ran away and he heard her giggling with her companions crowded near the hearth. Fat Jeyne gave him some brown bread and stood next to the table. Sandor shifted on the bench, ill-at-ease, but he was starving and the rich smell of pork stew was too tempting. He began to gobble down his food, forgetting Fat Jeyne and the boys and girls working in the kitchens, squeaking like mice. Once his bowl was empty, Fat Jeyne filled it with more stew and he went on. If the big woman took his gluttony as a tribute to her cooking, she was wrong: he only wanted to build up his strength, just in case. As long as someone offered him some food, he couldn't refuse. He finally granted Fat Jeyne with a sheepish look.

Two years ago, his little sister had found a rawboned cat nearby Clegane Keep and she had given him scraps. The damn cat had eaten greedily, finishing a surprising amount of food. He remembered his sister's fascinated look in front of the young animal, who used to eat when he could and starve when there was nothing for him. The cat's green eyes revealed he didn't know what to expect from his sister and himself. Were they able to keep him as a pet or did they like to hurt animals? The cat looked at them suspiciously, scratching his ruined ear. After a while, when his little sister confessed him how she loved the cat and how happy he would be with them in Clegane Keep, he understood what he had to do. He caught the skinny animal, put it in some bag and rode as far as he could before dropping the beast in the woods. If his sister had something she loved, Gregor would destroy it, and the thought of his sister's reaction was unbearable. Pretend the cat ran away was easier. It was two years ago, when Gregor only killed animals.

Sandor felt like the cat right now, nauseous because he had eaten too much and unable to read Tywin Lannister's intentions. He didn't know either what to think about Fat Jeyne who was now smiling; was she trying to be nice with him or was she just stupid?

* * *

**Jon**

The swift blow of his sword wasn't enough to disarm his opponent. The prince's locks brushed his forearm as he avoided Jon's long sword; steel made a silvery sound, he felt something pricking his chest, despite the jerkin he wore and it was over. Victory brought a half-smile on Rhaegar's lips.

No matter how gifted he was with a sword, no matter how many of his opponents had bitten the dust, Jon had never defeated the prince. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice his sudden clumsiness whenever Rhaegar chose him as a sparing partner. In the Great Hall, in the sept or in the yard where they practiced swordplay, Prince Rhaegar embodied perfection. _My silver prince._

As neither of them moved, the blade still grazed his chest and it was Rhaegar who first thought of the marks valyrian steel would leave on Jon's skin. He took his long sword and sheathed.

"Did I hurt you, my friend?" the prince asked, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

Jon shook his head but Rhaegar insisted. "I can see blood."

Docilely, Jon undid his jerkin and they both noticed a small gash on the left side of his chest, two inches above his nipple. _How ironic. As if he aimed at my heart._

"I am sorry," Rhaegar said, concern distorting his handsome face.

"I didn't even feel it."

It was true. Jon always felt numb and stupid and clumsy in front of his prince. Right now, he could have drowned himself in Rhaegar's purple gaze; moments like this one were too brief and too rare lately. As the prince still stared at him, looking for some other scratch, he stuck out his chest. Suddenly ashamed, he regretted it: was he some wanton girl in Flea Bottom to expose his skin and thus try to draw Rhaegar's attention? He grumbled and slipped on his jerkin.

"I am sorry," Rhaegar repeated, turning around and looking into the distance.

This time, Jon could tell the prince's apologies were not about the gash on the freckled skin of his chest. A fresh breeze blew in Rhaegar's silver locks and reminded Jon it was late; they only had until the sun went down. He nevertheless would try to make this moment last.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace," Jon rasped. "I know I'm not half as good as Ser Arthur Dayne. If he was here, he would have made a worthy opponent. I can still take my revenge, though."

His back to him, Rhaegar gestured and he understood there would be no more swordplay before the sunset.

"I didn't see Ser Arthur in King's Landing for some days," he went on. "Does Your Grace know what he has to do in Dorne?"

Rhaegar turned on his heels and his purple gaze became darker, as if Jon had insulted him.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace, I didn't mean..."

The Targaryen prince's features relaxed and he sighed.

"Someday, I will tell you everything, my friend," he promised. "But now, I feel tired."

Rhaegar looked rather anxious than tired, but Jon kept his thoughts for himself. After the Tourney at Harenhal, rumors spread all over the realm. For the first time in his life, Rhaegar was a disappointment; he had given the crown of blue winter roses to Lyanna Stark instead of choosing his wife Elia. That day, the Stark girl had become the Queen of Love and Beauty and from then on, smallfolk began to talk about their beloved prince in a way they never had before. Of course, Rhaegar's decision surprised him, but Jon could understand; Princess Elia was frail and always sick. The Stark girl was just a girl, but at least, she seemed alive.

They slowly walked toward Maegor's Holdfast and Jon brought back to his apartments the vision of his prince, distant and melancholic as ever.

* * *

When the squire knocked at his door, he was looking at the gash on his chest. Without really thinking about it, he had scratched it and removed the thin brown crust; now it was bleeding again. Jon stared at the boy with a hint of exasperation and asked what he wanted.

"Princess Elia would like to talk to you," the squire explained.

For fear of his reaction, the boy stepped back immediately, ready to retreat. If Jon managed to conceal his true feelings for the dornish princess when in court, he made no secret of his disdain for her in front of his relatives and his servants.

"What in Seven Hells does she want?" Jon growled.

The frightened boy couldn't tell him and he knew it. He cursed, got dressed and emptied a cup of Arbor gold before following his squire in the corridors of the Red Keep. A muted rage took hold of him and made his strides longer; the poor boy who couldn't keep up with him was soon forced to run behind an infuriated Jon. When he realized the squire was panting, he slowed down his pace, but they were already in front of Princess Elia's apartments.

She was bedridden since the maester found out she was with child. Before Princess Rhaenys' birth, she had stayed in bed for half a year, and now it was just the same. Everyone in court said it was necessary and sympathized with Elia, but he just didn't get it. Since when did bearing a child mean lazing in a feather bed? His mother certainly didn't spend her time bedridden when she was expecting him. As Lady Ashara Dayne, Princess Elia's lady-in-waiting sent him in, he sighed and clenched his jaw. On Ashara's graceful face, he noticed a mischievous smile; she knew how he felt about Rhaegar's wife, but he couldn't care less.

The bedroom had an incredible coffered ceiling of orange, red and golden, a tribute to House Martell's sigil. White veils hung from the ceiling, framing the bed where Elia of Dorne sat enthroned. She seemed even weaker than the last time he had seen her, lost in the huge bed like some beginner actress in a spectacular scenery.

"It's been a long time, my lord," she said softly, granting him with one of those smiles all the lords and ladies of Westeros found so charming. _Hypocrite. We don't like each other._ He bowed deeply in front of Elia, happy to realize that a curtsey allowed him to keep the contemptuous look the princess inspired him for a heartbeat or two.

"Oh, stand up, my lord. Please. Did somebody tell you how this doublet fits you well?"

"I don't think so, Your Grace," he answered a bit stiffly. "Are we here to talk about frills and flounces?"

A tinkling laugh escaped her lips and he suddenly remembered how young she was. _Featherbrained._

"Of course not, my lord. You are here because now that I am bedridden, I have time to think about many matters I overlooked so far."

"Politics? Philosophy?" he mocked. Every time they met, it became more and more difficult to hide his aversion for her; he should be more careful. She laughed again.

"You are boiling, my lord. Actually I was thinking about politics and love. I was thinking about a wedding. Yours."

Elia's big eyes locked with his and she tilted her head, observing his reaction. He stood there gaping, trying to understand what she had just said. She knows. She knows who I am and what I feel for him.

"How old are you, Lord Connington? Two-and-twenty, maybe three-and-twenty, like my dear husband? It doesn't matter: it is time for you to marry and give an heir to Griffin's Roost."

If she was a man, he would have thrown himself on her and made her regret her words, but he couldn't do that: her sickness and her pregnancy were her shield and sword.

"I do not have time for this," he said slowly, glaring at her.

"How serious you look, my lord!" she exclaimed. "No time for marrying a high-born lady and conceiving an heir?"

"I would be a terrible husband and a terrible father, Your Grace," he replied, his eyes fleeting around the room. He hoped this argument would hit the bull's eye.

"My dear Jon, if all the terrible husbands and fathers had refused to wed, we wouldn't be there."

His forced smile perhaps didn't delude her, but she couldn't blame him for that.

"I think you should get married," she insisted. "I found you the perfect match..."

"No offense, Your Grace, but I don't want to discuss those matters for now. There are far more important questions than my wedding. Lord Varys' little birds reported that troublemakers are coming to the capital."

"Troublemakers?"

"Lord Stark's eldest son and some of his companions."

"What do they want?" Elia's tone was suddenly frightened.

"I should not tell you, Your Grace. In your condition..."

"What is it?" she begged. "I told Lady Ashara and my ladies-in-waiting not to hide anything from me, but they disobeyed. They don't know me, I am strong..."

He snorted. The princess had just given him a way to make her suffer like he suffered. It was too tempting. Her anxiety delighted him.

"I suppose you remember the crown Prince Rhaegar gave to Lyanna Stark, during the Tourney at Harenhal. The Stark girl is reported missing and his brother blames Rhaegar."

"Impossible," the princess said, panting as if she had run in the corridors. "My husband..."

Jon kept silent deliberately. He should be ashamed for disturbing Elia's mind, but he wasn't. _Now, it's your turn to suffer and to torture yourself._ Fear and doubts distorted her features.

"Your Grace asked why I don't want to get married," he finally said, a pitiless look in his eyes. "I see your concern about Prince Rhaegar, and I thank the Seven for not being a husband and a father."

She swallowed hard, unable to answer or to send him away. He noticed how her small fists grabbed the smooth fabric of the sheets, how jealousy had crept up on her face. Tormenting her relieved him. He bowed again and asked her in a courteous tone if he could leave her. She barely answered and he made his way to the door. Lady Ashara Dayne waited for him in the corridor, the little Rhaenys in her arms.

"Princess Elia wants to be alone," he told her. _I want her to brood over the case of the Stark girl, no matter how false rumors are._

Ashara's half-smile surprised him and he wondered if she was the 'perfect match' Elia had found for him, but it seemed far-fetched. Rhaenys squirmed in Ashara's arms and looked at him.

"Red hair!" she told him, pointing a chubby hand at him.

"Why does Prince Rhaegar's daughter have brown hair?" he retorted stiffly.

Frightened by his harsh tone, the little girl hid her face in Ashara's neck. The lady-in-waiting laughed.

"Are you trying to convince Princess Rhaenys you would make a terrible husband?" she asked.

"You listened to our conversation."

"Perhaps."

The thought of an alliance between him and House Dayne didn't seem so stupid after all, at least in Elia's mind. Rhaegar's wife probably thought it was a great favor to marry her lady-in-waiting. And it was true, for any other man. Maybe Elia knew his feelings for her husband and tried to separate them. He clenched his jaw, as anger rose inside him. All of a sudden, he remembered Ser Arthur Dayne's unusual absence.

"Tell me something, my lady," he said. "It's been a while since I last saw your brother here. As a member of the Kingsguard, he should be protecting the king, shouldn't he?"

Ashara's purple eyes expressed both surprise and helplessness. When she heard Princess Elia's voice through the thick wooden door, she quickly took leave.

He stared at the carved panels once Ashara was gone and wondered about the Stark girl.

* * *

**Eddard**

For some years, the castle of the Eyrie had been his home and the craggy landscape of the Vale, his only horizon. His family came down to a man in his late fifties, who fostered him, and a boy who was his age, but whose character was so different from his people generally didn't understand the bond between them. Lord Jon Arryn represented the only father figure he knew and Robert Baratheon was his closest companion, almost a brother. Sometimes, it seemed to Ned the features of his father and his brother became blurred and his life was there, in the impregnable fortress looming over the Vale. Yet, the Tourney at Harrenhal, some months before, had questioned everything.

The Year of False Spring had forced him to reconsider who he was and who was his family. Who was his friend. And now he felt like in the middle of the ford; it was difficult but he could only go further and try to reach the other side, whatever the cost.

When he thought about the Tourney and its beginning, he remembered his shock when he had seen her again; he had almost forgotten what it was to have a sister. Lyanna was a will-o'-the-wisp – and Robert's presence in Harrenhal had nothing to do with it. Her fits of laughter, her whims, her secrets were parts of an exotic land he had left long ago. The tourney was like a new opportunity to visit this foreign country. He felt both disoriented and charmed. Day after day, she surprised him and they became again a brother and his sister. What they had lived together when the Knight of the Laughing Tree made his entrance, gave them the illusion nothing could resist them. Even the sagacious Prince Rhaegar. Then, at the end of the Tourney, when the story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree only seemed a trick imagined by children, the consequences of their game frightened him.

Time was flying, though, and the mismatched armor of the mystery knight was just a memory. As he leaned against the balcony of his bedchamber, Ned felt like an old man summoning the ghosts of his past. Someone knocked at the door and put an end to his reverie. One of the old servants came in and explained Ned's presence was required in the High Hall.

He didn't know what to expect when he strode along the corridors of the Eyrie. The last raven had revealed Lyanna's abduction and he still clang to the faint hope his brother Brandon had found her. At the sight of the walls made of blue-veined marble, new comers often felt like the temperature in the High Hall was lower than in any other part of the castle. He knew the High Hall; he even played there with Robert, but when he saw Jon Arryn's grim expression at the end of the never-ending table, it seemed to Ned that the narrow windows were open, allowing a chilly wind to blow in the spectacular room.

Robert was there, as well. After all, Lyanna was betrothed to him. Since her kidnapping, Robert was a shadow of his former self. The tall and broad-shouldered young man was stooping and avoided people's gaze. However, as soon as he caught a glimpse of his friend, Ned sensed there was something completely different. Restless, Robert was pacing up and down. He even shouted something at Jon Arryn, but he was too far to understand his words. Before Ned reached them, Robert stormed out of the High Hall, ignoring his surprise and Arryn's frowning.

Ned looked at the man who had fostered him for so long and felt unable to speak. At first, Arryn remained silent, as if he suddenly feared another burst of anger, then, when tension became palpable, he held out a scroll.

"Your lord father," Arryn said in his baritone voice. "Your brother found out that Prince Rhaegar abducted Lyanna and he went to the court with some of his companions. Now King Aerys summons your father and his companions' fathers to court."

His head was pounding.

"House Royce, House Mallister, House Glover summoned to court as if they were thieves and murderers. And to say that my nephew, Elbert, is out there. You know what it means," Arryn added. "It can only end in blood."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Jon**

_Please let some fresh air in._ It seemed to Jon that the entire Red Keep was stinking. The smell of smoke filled the castle and there was not a room or a gallery that didn't reek of charred meat.

Whenever he let his mind wander and thought all this was a bad dream and nothing had happened, the smell reminded him what his king had done to Lord Rickard Stark and his son Brandon. Not that he was fond of the Northerners; they always seemed haughty, wrapped in their pride. The Starks had never completely admitted they were no more kings in the North, and Brandon was a hot head. No one deserved to die this way, though. No one deserved to die for accusing the wrong person.

Jon was not in King's Landing when Lord Stark arrived; he was already heading to the Stormlands before the White Cloaks arrested Brandon Stark and his companions. King Aerys had sent him to Griffin's Roost, explaining that the impending visit of Lords Stark, Royce, Mallister and Glover in the capital didn't exempt Jon from his duties toward the people of the Stormlands. The king's sudden interest for smallfolk seemed unnatural, but what could he do? He was on his way back when he heard the news and thought for a while that the merchants chatting about a man roasting in his armor were just spreading some tale. He loathed rumors and that was the main reason why he distrusted smallfolk. _Always telling tales, because they don't know. But if they knew, they would tell even more idle gossips._ Then, as every hour brought him closer to the Red Keep, he met more people reporting the death of Lord Stark and his son. When he entered the Great Hall, he almost choked on an acrid smell and realized everything the merchants and the peasants had told him was true. Mayhaps they were not wide of the mark.

His absence and the stench in the Red Keep condemned Jon to imagine what had happened. Somehow, it was worse than witnessing the Starks' death. In his opinion, Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Gerold Hightower, who watched the scene, had never been so spry. _How is it possible? When did the King lose his mind? And if I had been there, what would I have done?_

There had been hints, tiny details of the king's madness that had startled him, but he didn't want to pay attention. It was easier to blame Aerys' imprisonment during the Defiance of Duskendale. When he was still a squire, the whole story of Aerys rotting in a jail was enough to explain the king's weird habits. Aerys was not only his king, he was Rhaegar's father; Jon found out that yocanoodling forgive almost everything from the one you love, and that you were always lenient with your love's relatives.

After a while, it just was more convenient to turn a blind eye to the king's whims and fits of anger. Everyone did so in the Red Keep. Everyone tried to ignore the bruises on Queen Rhaella's skin, whenever she dared to leave her apartments. Some heard her crying and screaming at night, but didn't say anything for fear of the king's reaction. Thus, most of the time, the ladies and lords still attending court looked at each other with embarrassment and did their best to forget what they saw. After all, Rhaegar would be king someday – the sooner the better – and he was so gifted, so wise...

_We were blind, I was blind; we didn't want to face the king's condition. We refused to admit Aerys is mad. _Beheading those men – a death the Starks would have approved, they were known for beheading the convicts themselves – it have been a terrible mistake, but they would have died with dignity. The torture Aerys had imagined for them was barbaric and revealed that a demented person ruled the Seven Kingdoms.

Even the dragon skulls adorning the walls of the Great Hall seemed to disapprove. On his way to Maegor's Holdfast, he met one of Princess Elia's ladies-in-waiting, perhaps the most talkative of them. Jon smelt the heavy scent of her perfume before seeing her; she hid her pretty nose behind a lace handkerchief and bowed slightly her head with a courteous look. She certainly had no time for banter, that day, though: like everyone inside the thick walls of the Red Keep since the past few days, she was in a hurry or pretended she had no time to breathe.

_Aye, my lady. When you were a little girl, you wanted to live in the capital and stay at court. You imagined the feasts and the gardens full of roses. You certainly didn't imagine that stench offending your delicate nostrils._ He snorted. Since the Starks were dead, the high-born ladies stormed the shops that were selling perfumes and frankincense. _What kind of fools are we? If we were brave, we would have done something to prevent King Aerys from killing them but we pretend nothing happened and we drench ourselves in perfume._ At some point, Jon realized the only bravery he heard of was Brandon's, strangling himself as he tried to save his lord father. Even those he respected, like Ser Barristan Selmy didn't lift a little finger.

A seven years old boy emerged from the dark corner he was hiding in and howled, waving a wooden sword. He had a long pale face and his blond hair was almost white.

"Prince Viserys," Jon said, bowing his head, "how are you today?"

Now that the king's madness was so obvious, he wondered how a child could grow up in the Red Keep. In Jon's opinion, Viserys was old enough to be sent away to some place where he would learn everything a prince should know. Some place where the boy would have other companions than the dragons' skulls hanging in the Great Hall. Instead of answering to Jon, the boy pointed his sword at him.

"Watch yourself, Connington!" Viserys squeaked. "Or else I will have you burning in your armor! Just like Father did!"

If he was his son, Jon would have given him a good hiding for threatening people.

"Do you think this is a game?" Jon asked, squatting in front of him. In the young prince's purple eyes, he saw overconfidence, but it soon melted away under Jon's frowning gaze. The boy began to quiver and he finally disappeared in the corridors. Jon stood up and sighed. Prince Viserys' attitude was like the stench inside the Red Keep: a proof of Aerys' madness everyone tried to forget.

* * *

Rhaegar came back to King's Landing at noon that day. The Crown Prince was nowhere to be found when Brandon Stark arrived in the capital, seeking vengeance; no one knew where he was, what for and when he would be back.

Jon spotted Ser Arthur Dayne by the stables the same day, after a long absence. He noticed Rhaegar, as well, who seemed upset when he left Princess Elia's bedroom.

Despite his confused look, Rhaegar asked him to come and practice swordplay. They walked side by side, each one in his thoughts, breathing deeper as they left the stinking corridors of the Red Keep to go outside. Rhaegar's favorite spot was a dusty corner of the yard, a place where the late afternoon sun shining in the prince's silver hair always distracted Jon. His head was pounding but he tried to regain his composure and prepared their weapons as he usually did. He was ready to ask Rhaegar if he wanted some squire to fetch his mail when the prince's hand brushed his forearm.

"It will not be necessary, my friend. I have changed my mind: we should talk. I owe you an explanation."

Rhaegar's words surprised him and his heart skipped a beat. He slowly turned around and stared at the prince's handsome face: the high forehead, the straight nose and the full lips he desperately wanted to kiss.

"What my father did, he did it to protect me," Rhaegar began. "I am sure he did it to protect me. It was crazy all the same."

The prince avoided his gaze and watched Maegor's Holdfast as if he had never seen it before. Jon shifted so that he came into Rhaegar's range of vision.

"You have doubts, of course," Rhaegar went on, locking eyes with his. "You remember the king decided to attend the Tourney at Harrenhal because he thought I was plotting against him. And suddenly, a surge of love and fear for his son's life... You are right, Jon. My father, our king, lost his mind, and those men, even if they threatened my life, didn't deserve to die."

Jon kept silent and let his eyes wander on Rhaegar's large shoulders. The prince usually stood straight and his square shoulders were one of the things people noticed when they first saw him, but that day, Rhaegar was so appalled he seemed round-shouldered.

"Maybe you should go while it's not too late, Jon," he suggested, a poor smile on his face. "You know these families will not forgive what happened. We could have a war."

"We can fight them, Your Grace," Jon said with stubbornness.

A nervous laugh escaped Rhaegar's lips. "Don't call me 'Your Grace' today. We are only two friends talking about their future. Lord Merryweather might be a good Hand of the King in peace time, still... Merryweather fighting them would be a mummer's farce. Don't deny it. That's why I think you should go back to the Stormlands while you still have time."

Jon gave him a long look. _You didn't confide in me after the Tourney at Harrenhal and now you want me to go away?_

"I am not sure there is a future for you here," Rhaegar whispered. "We are dancing on the precipice. The next decision my father takes, the realm could leap into the void."

"If we leap into the void, I might as well be by your side."

Jon's answer made Rhaegar blink and he gave him a reproachful gaze. _Oh, no. Don't tell me you don't know. You know how I feel about you for some years, now._ Jon couldn't take it back and didn't want to.

"The Starks and the other ones died because of me," Rhaegar insisted. "Because of what I did. I am responsible for their deaths. I should have been here. I should have fought Brandon Stark. You have nothing to do with this and I don't want you to die."

The purple eyes fluttered about him and gave him the strength he needed to grab the prince's upper arm. Surprised by his sudden boldness, Rhaegar stared at him.

"I would give my life for you," Jon growled. "I didn't spend all those years in King's Landing so that you can send me off. I choose to stay and to fight by your side."

When he let go with Rhaegar, he was shaking but he felt relieved. His eyes shut tight, the prince shook his head.

"I owe you an explanation. What happened... I didn't harm Lyanna, I swear it."

_Lyanna._ He didn't say 'the girl' nor 'Lady Stark'. Using her first name sounded like a confession. Jon clenched his jaw.

"Princess Elia asked me so many questions," Rhaegar said. He seemed to relive the unpleasant conversation he had had with his wife. "What you have to understand-"

"I don't want to know," Jon cut him off.

Of course, Elia wanted to know every detail: she was young and silly. In the throes of jealousy, she was now crying on a feather bed, ruing the day she met Rhaegar. If he didn't despise her, Jon could have felt sorry for the dornish princess. He knew better than asking what had happened with the Stark girl; jealousy was so familiar to him he had learned not to feed it with details.

"Don't tell me anything," Jon begged. "Don't tell me but let me stay by your side."

* * *

**Eddard**

The shadows lengthened across the solar's tiles as they waited for Robert. A servant had told Arryn that he wouldn't be long, but the poor lad underestimated Robert's ability to try everyone's patience. Arryn pushed himself from his armchair and began to pace up and down, cursing in an undertone.

"Could you tell me what it is?" Eddard finally asked, coveting the scroll at the end of the long solid oak table. A few hours ago, a raven had arrived and Arryn asked Eddard to come forthwith. The Lord of the Vale shook his head and glared at him.

"But I can't! Robert has to be here. Where is he?"

Ned was certainly not responsible for his friend's lack of punctuality but as usual, Arryn held him accountable. It was how things worked: Robert misbehaved and Arryn lectured Eddard, because lecturing the Stormlands boy was counterproductive.

"Tell me," Eddard insisted.

Arryn froze and pointed at him angrily.

"I told you I can't, because Robert is not here!" he bellowed.

_And if Robert was here instead of me, if I was late, would you wait for me like this? _Sometimes Eddard considered there was a double standard: Arryn always cared for Robert and asked where he was, but almost ignored him. He looked at Arryn's wrinkled face and couldn't decide whether he should speak or keep his thoughts for himself.

A knock made them turned around, but Arryn growled in discontentment when he saw the old serving man popping his head around the door. "They're here, m'lord."

"Send them in," Arryn grunted.

Startled, Eddard watched as men of several houses sworn to the Eyrie came in the solar. Houses Royce and Belmore, Corbray, Waynwood, and other minor houses. He even recognized the curious sigil of House Lynderly of Snakewood with its wriggling green snakes on a black field. Why are they all here? It can't be some news from my father: Arryn would have told me in privacy. And he suddenly felt relieved.

"Where is Grafton? And Sunderland?" Arryn snarled.

He seemed offended and the men standing in front of him, weathered or young, looked at each other hesitantly. One stepped forward and finally said he didn't know. Arryn stared all the men – including Eddard – in his furious gaze and went to the hearth. The fireplace wasn't used for some weeks now that the sun warmed the Vale, but he took the firebrand and moved the ashes.

Another knock made Arryn spin on his heels. The door creaked open and Robert came in unfazed. When they saw his rather disheveled look, the Bannermen probably thought he had run through the corridors. As Robert took a seat, Eddard gripped the sides of his chair until his knuckles went white. His back to the hearth, Arryn cleared his throat and looked at the assembly.

"This morning, a raven from the capital came to the Eyrie. King Aerys killed the men who sought revenge for Lyanna Stark's abduction. All of them. Lord Rickard Stark and his heir Brandon are dead."

At first, he didn't realize what Arryn said; stunned, the lords murmured and Robert banged his fist on the table. He felt lost: he tried to lock eyes with Arryn, but the Lord of the Eyrie ignored him and went to the large mullion windows. When Ned turned around to face Arryn's vassals, their intrusive look made him cringe; they waited for his reaction and Robert tilted his head, urging him to stand up and shout something.

_This was not supposed to happen this way._ He knew danger awaited his father and brother in King's Landing, but he had never imagined he would learn they were dead in a room crowded with strangers. That was enough for him: he got on his feet and left the solar, hurrying in the barely lit corridors, as Arryn yelled after him.

He didn't even know where he was going to; he only wanted to be alone in some quiet spot where he could realize he would never see his father and Brandon again; the solar was the worse place for it. He ran down the stairs and made his way to the gardens. Outside the castle, on the terrace overlooking the Vale, he would find solace in the godswood, even if the Eyrie didn't have a heart tree. That was where he would have gone, if he was in Winterfell. He sat near the biggest tree, shut his eyes and tried to remember Winterfell's godswood, its weirwood with blood-red leaves, its pool...

_They're gone. Father is gone. Brandon died._ He recalled his brother, tall, handsome, exuding confidence and drawing the girls attention. Sometimes, he thought Brandon was cocky, while his elder brother used to call him fainthearted. And Father... Ned's father was stern and reserved. He didn't speak unless it was necessary, a trait of character he had inherited. He couldn't believe they were dead. _Because of the Tourney. Because of what we did._

He roused himself from his reverie when he felt a large hand on his shoulder. Robert was squatting in front of him, brow furrowed.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said, squeezing Eddard's upper arm. "My lord."

"What did you call me?"

"My lord. You're the lord of Winterfell, now that your father and brother are dead."

Eddard's heart beat wildly. He began to understand he would never see Brandon and Father again, but that... _Winterfell. The castle, the winter town, the fields, the forests..._ He suddenly felt dizzy.

"No, no," he told Robert, shaking his head. "It was not supposed to happen this way."

"Ned, you can't indulge yourself in grief. You don't have time!" Robert replied.

Grabbing Eddard's upper arms, he helped him get on his feet, then cupped his chin.

"The scroll Arryn received from King's Landing was about your father and your brother's execution, but there was more. This prick smallfolk called our king demanded our heads. Mine and yours. It seems that murdering two members of House Stark and a bunch of noble men didn't quench his thirst for blood. Aerys demands your head because you're the new Stark of Winterfell and mine, because I'm betrothed to Lyanna. The message doesn't say if Arryn should hand us over to the king or if he has to behead us before sending our heads in some basket, though."

Robert didn't lose his taste for japes, despite the circumstances.

"What will Arryn decide?" Eddard asked hesitantly.

Towering above him, Robert roared with laughter.

"The Mad King – from now on, I'll always call him this way – killed Elbert, Arryn's only heir. He can't sit in a corner and wait until the royal army comes here! He'll raise his banners. That's why he summoned his vassals. I think he wrote to some of them a few days ago, when he received a raven from your lord father."

Bewildered, Eddard tried to give sense to Robert's words.

"We'll soon head south, Ned. We'll seek revenge for Lyanna, for your father and brother, for Elbert and the other ones. We'll kill the Targaryen rapist. But first, I'll go to the Stormlands and call my Bannermen. And so will you, once you're in the North."

In the solar, the noble men were shouting; Ned raised his head to see the mullion windows that looked like two dark eyes in the white stone façade. Noticing his puzzled face, Robert gave him a pat on the back.

"Their oath of allegiance to Arryn," he explained. "Our first war... You and me, fighting the royal army..."

For a heartbeat, Robert seemed to forget Eddard was mourning and dead worried about his sister. He looked at his friend's glimmering eyes as he spoke and the sparkle he saw in it – not scared but rather cheerful – made him feel uncomfortable.

* * *

**Sandor**

His opponent was the youngest squire Casterly Rock housed, a boy of ten-and-four, the fifth son of Lord Serrett. A despising look on his face, the young Harry Serrett of Silverhill hid his dull blond hair under a helm looking too big for him.

Fighting Sandor in the dusty yard of Casterly Rock irritated him: first of all, the orphan of Clegane's Keep was not a squire, not even a page ; he was a child, compared to the young Serrett who had learned swordplay with a master-at-arms in his lord father's castle. Worse still, Sandor was the second son of a minor house, while the Serretts boasted about being one of the principal houses sworn to the Lannisters.

When Sandor went past him to fetch his weapons, he heard Serrett barking and howling. In the Westernlands, everyone knew how the Cleganes had become landed knights, how the kennelmaster of Casterly Rock once saved Tywin's father from being killed by a lionness, losing three dogs and a leg in the effort. It was a tale people whispered when they saw the sigil of House Clegane, three black dogs on a yellow field reminding the dry autumnal grass where the hounds gave their lives for Tytos Lannister. Sandor's grand-father was a kennelmaster overnight raised to nobility; among the noble houses of the Westernlands, the Cleganes would always be low-born. A boy of ten-and-two belonging to such a minor house was not worthy of Harry Serrett of Silverhill. Serrett made no mystery about it but he couldn't disobey Gerion who was his master.

_Peacock_, Sandor thought, glaring at the young Serrett. It was not even an insult, since Harry waved a wooden shield adorned with a peacock in his pride. House Serrett's words were 'I have no rival'. _We'll see._

Tywin Lannister had almost forgotten Sandor after his visit to the maester's tower. Someone had told Sandor that he could sleep in the same room with Kevan's page, a sickly boy of ten, and a maid had tossed a pallet on the floor for him. Things changed the day Gregor send a raven to Casterly Rock; Gregor said he wanted his brother back and Tywin suddenly remembered a boy hiding his scars under black hair wandered in his castle.

If he didn't wake up before sunrise – he got into the habit in Clegane's Keep, because Gregor was still asleep at dawn and he could come and go in the towerhouse – he wouldn't have met Gerion in the corridor next to the kitchens, nor learn that Tywin wanted him to prove his skills. He suspected he would be better than his opponent, but what if he failed?

A knot in his stomach – the cabbage soup Fat Jeyne had given him didn't help – he got back to the room where he slept and sat on his pallet. Kevan's page mumbled something in his sleep and Sandor shook his head. He had to collect himself and remember all the things his father had taught him. For hours, he didn't move and got back mentally to Clegane's Keep's yard, where he used to practice swordplay. The impending fight brought to his mind the smallest hole in the uneven ground of the yard, every piece of advice his father had given him, every move he had done while facing Gregor.

The lazy page rubbed his eyes, got dressed and left their room long before he decided to go downstairs. Once in the large ocher yard, Sandor realized how his opponent despised him and it only gave him another reason to fight.

Thus, he was waiting in the midday sun for Tywin to come. Under Kevan's command, an older squire helped him with a padded armor and a hauberk. The damn chainmail shirt was a bit short for him, but he kept his mouth shut and took the lumpy visorless helmet the squire hold out to him.

People began to gather around them, more than happy to entertain themselves; the master-at-arms was there of course, with the pages and the squires, a dozen serving men in addition to them; some of the maids escaped Fat Jeyne's watchfulness and sneaked out of the kitchens. The crowd started to talk about the fight's outcome and some bet copper coins on the young Serrett. Gerion and Kevan as well waited for the Lord of Casterly Rock. Each one took sides; while Kevan whispered to Serrett's ear and patted his shoulder in a paternalistic way, Gerion stood behind Sandor, silent, yet scowling at his brother.

Finally, as he was wondering if this fight would take place, Tywin arrived. Sandor didn't see him at first, but he noticed something had changed in the eyes of the bystanders and a hasty retreat of the kitchen maids warned him the Great Lion of the Rock was there. Tywin forced himself through the crowd and glared at a squire who was tossing a few coins to the master-at-arms.

"I wager that Serrett will make the pup cry for his mother," the squire said, unaware of Tywin's gaze. Someone nudged at the squire and he bit his lip. With his hands folded in his back, Tywin turned to Sandor.

"You told me you could be useful and you knew how to fight. Very well. Are you ready to fight Serrett in loyal combat?"

"Aye, my lord," he replied.

Some of the men burst of laughing.

"Did you hear this grating voice?" one exclaimed. "He's a babe! Rather tall for his age, maybe... Serrett, you're fighting a babe!"

Tywin's sharp look stopped the man immediately; he motioned his hand and the fight began. Emboldened by the shouting men, Serrett threw himself on him but dropped his guard; Sandor easily struck back and made the squire retreat. He looked at the peacock boy's eyes and saw nervousness, but around them, the watchers still bellowed Serrett's name and not his. _What do I want? Having them supporting me or just winning the fight and see this rat squeaking in the dust?_

He attacked Serrett and all of a sudden, the watchers' screaming changed. Some shouted their head off in disappointment, because they had bet on the peacock squire, others gave advice to Serrett. No one cried his name. Far from disheartening him, the situation infuriated Sandor: holding tight the pommel of his sword, he began to destroy the painted shield and soon there was nothing left but the offended head of the peacock, still protecting the squire's hand. Panic-stricken, Serret stepped back and stumbled. On all fours, then on his back, the squire waved his hand until he got rid of the ridiculous shield Sandor had pulverized and lost his sword in the effort. However, a disarmed enemy wouldn't be enough by Sandor's father's standards; he pushed aside the squire's sword and drove his to the panting boy's throat. Unable to speak, his armored chest heaving, the proud Serrett begged Sandor with his eyes and looked at the blade. Around them, the men went silent.

Sandor turned slightly to face Tywin and what he saw elated him. The Lord of Casterly Rock was not smiling, nor anxious about the terrified squire who had lost both the fight and his pride. He seemed impressed and the sparkle of interest Sandor caught in his eye was the sweetest thing he had seen for a while.

"Let go with him," Tywin commanded. "We'll see if we can find you a worthy opponent."

Sandor stepped back and sheathed his sword, but froze when a man pointed at Serrett.

"Seven Hells! Serrett pissed his pants!"

On the brownish sand of the yard, a darker puddle widened between the squire's legs.

"Serrett pissed his pants, Serrett pissed his pants!" the men exclaimed.

They said it over and over, as the wretched squire pushed himself from the ground and ran away. The sentence, repeated, chanted, sounded like a nursery rhyme. Tywin shushed the assembly, then looked around, trying to find who would be Sandor's next opponent.

"You," he finally said to the squire who had helped Sandor with his equipment. "Find a padded armor and a hauberk."

This one, a muscular boy with brown hair and a protruding chin, was older than Serrett, probably almost seventeen. _Gregor's age._ He was a bit taller than Sandor, and more far more experienced.

"This is a cruel game," Gerion protested, walking briskly toward Tywin. "Peckledon will be knighted soon and-"

"I disagree. We need to know if the lad has the guts," Kevan retorted. "After all, he said he wanted to fight. Who will he fight, once in the battlefield? Knights, most likely. Let's have some fun."

Sandor intended to have fun, too. As Peckledon put on his padded armor and a chainmail shirt which seemed his, not something borrowed from the master-at-arms, he observed him. Peckledon glanced back at him from time to time without showing his apprehension if he ever was ill-at-ease. Gerion came back to Sandor and brushed his arm thickened by the padded armor.

"You're quick," he told Sandor. "You're quick, but sometimes you need to have a good look at your opponent. Agility is good, but only once you've taken your time and understood his weaknesses. You did well, though."

"Thank you, Ser."

Twenty feet separated him from Peckledon, who was fastening his helmet.

"Left shoulder," Gerion whispered.

He said it without looking at him, careful not to be heard by the other ones. Sandor barely nodded, wondering why Gerion Lannister himself would help him this way.

Among the men watching the fight, he saw a very young boy, with golden hair framing his strange little face. He knew Tywin Lannister's youngest son was a dwarf and his father rejected him. The dwarf boy limped along toward Gerion, who frowned at him and told him he shouldn't be there.

Tywin gestured once again and the fight began. This time, his opponent seemed cautious and observed him for a while before feinting. Sandor knew the Lannisters watched every thrust he made and appreciated it; the atmosphere was different from the first fight, because nobody dared to bet on either of the boys and because the outcome was uncertain. Tension filled the corner of the dusty yard where they were challenging each other.

"He's gifted," Tywin commented, after Sandor's counterattack. "Very agile."

"He's more than that," Gerion added. And for once, Kevan didn't find anything wrong with it.

After a few minutes, Sandor struck Peckledon on his left shoulder; he had hesitated, but finally realized Gerion had given him this advice so that he could take advantage of it. The older boy winced in pain. A few more blows and his opponent was on his knees. There were no shouts, no cheers. _What did I expected? _Instead of praising him, squires and grown men looked at him with distrust.

"You stay, for the time being," Tywin eventually said. "You'll be Ser Kevan's squire. You already share his page's room." And that was all.

As he took off the hauberk and the padded armor, he heard men talking about him.

"He's Gregor Clegane's brother. The one Prince Rhaegar knighted a while ago."

"Clegane's brother? Seven save us! Now I understand why he defeated the two older boys. He's a monster. Cleganes are monsters."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Eddard**

"Grafton is a problem," Arryn whispered, sighing.

After years spent with him at the Eyrie, Eddard knew exactly how to read the Lord of the Vale's expression, and that morning, he understood Arryn was both tired and anxious. On his clean-shaved face, wrinkles were deeper and Arryn rubbed his cheeks nervously, suddenly going back to the large wooden table of the solar.

He had unwound the yellowish scroll showing a map of the Vale; decades ago, a maester serving one of his ancestors had drawn an exact picture of the territory ruled by House Arryn, with the mountains, the lakes, the woods and the cities. The maester had not forgotten the sigils of the lords of the Vale. Tiny coats of arms brightened up the map with their vivid colors.

He extended a large hand to the East, showing a peninsula surrounded by the Narrow Sea.

"Gulltown, one of the major harbors of the Vale, siege of House Grafton," Arryn added, gesturing to a red and black sigil adorned with a burning tower.

"I know what Gulltown is," Robert said with a hint of impatience.

"My men reported Randyll Grafton is gathering half of my Bannermen. Those who stay loyal to Aerys."

"Royalists," Robert spat.

"We have to handle this before even thinking of sending you to the North and in the Stormlands. We need to secure the Vale prior to going South and fighting the royal army. Prior to anything else," Arryn enunciated.

The man had fostered him for such a long time Ned even knew when he would click heels, a sign of nervousness and exasperation with him. And he did it: he clicked his heels and Eddard thought Arryn foresaw difficulties.

"What do you think, Ned?"

Whenever they had that kind of serious conversation, he remained silent most of the time, looking at the maps, weighing Robert's and Arryn's arguments and only spoke when asked.

"We need to gather the men who back House Arryn and go as fast as we can to Gulltown. Take them unaware if possible. Face them on a battlefield. We should not enter the town: narrow streets, three or four floors houses... It's not safe."

Arryn nodded. "I agree with Ned," he told Robert. "A battle in the harbor is far too risky. Once Gulltown is mine, you'll sail to Storm's End, while he goes to the North. We have to be careful: the smallest error can lead us to death. And I don't want my head rotting on the walls of the Red Keep."

"You won't have your head rotting on the walls. These days, Mad Aerys prefers to cook his enemies in their armor," Robert said. "Fire and blood."

"Shut up!" Arryn commanded. "Lord Rickard would have been your good father!"

Robert shrugged. "Are we done?"

* * *

Promptness was all in their plan; once Arryn had gathered his troops and his loyal Bannermen, they headed to the East, riding as fast as they could to Gulltown. With the meager forces they had, they couldn't besiege the harbor – a proper siege required a fleet they didn't have – so they counted on Robert to provoke Randyll Grafton. The lord of Storm's End fulfilled their expectations.

The two parties confronted one another in the damp meadows by Gulltown's walls. As expected by Arryn, the royalists Valemen outnumbered them, but they didn't seem ready to fight when they came out of the gates: the lords who exited the city were happy to meet each other and to feast; they believed their only presence would prevent Robert from sailing to Storm's End. They were reddish after a few nights spent in the harbor where Selhorys pale green wines and Pentoshi ambers arrived on a weekly basis from Essos.

The two groups observed each other silently for a while, then Arryn shouted his house's words and Robert's stallion charged. Afterward, his memories of the fight faded. In the knee-high grass, spears met horses' chest, men jumped from their saddle, as their mount died, in order to fight on the ground, high-born lords and commoners uttered the same gut-wrenching cry before breathing their last breath.

Twenty feet on his left, a royalist knight wearing heavy plate armor fell from his horse and didn't manage to push himself from the ground. All Ned had to do was run to him and aim at the joints where no metallic layer protected the flesh; he chose the place beneath his left arm. _This way, it will be quick._ The knight screamed and he began to think this cry would never end, wondering if he had cut the artery, then the man stopped. The quiet meadows where grass rippled in the wind had turned into a nightmare. Before Ned could understand what was going on, his blood-drenched longsword felt heavy in his hands and Jon Arryn was coming to him, panting and looking concerned.

"It's over, Ned," he said almost softly.

But Eddard didn't understand at first; he was staring at Arryn's face, spattered with blood, despite his helm. When he turned around, he saw Valemen and their squires, their bloodstained jerkins and their red hands. _Is my face spattered with blood, as well?_ He looked at his hands; blood was already drying by places. Suddenly, he felt the urge to touch his cheeks and nose; getting rid of his helm, he run his fingers over his face and realized how sticky was his skin.

"It's over," Arryn repeated. "Grafton is dead. Robert killed him in single combat."

'Single combat' sounded like their fight was honorable and knightly; minstrels celebrated single combats in their songs, but wherever he set his eyes, he could only see wounded horses waiting for someone to finish them off, corpses in weird positions and men holding their bowels. _Did we take part in the same fight?_

"Do you understand me, Ned? We won! Grafton is dead, and so are his lieutenants. Half of the royalists surrendered."

Arryn expected congratulations or at least a sign showing that he was as relieved as himself, but Eddard couldn't give him what he wanted. All of a sudden, the Lord of the Vale shook his head in bewilderment and turned his heels.

* * *

Since the day they learned Lyanna was missing, Robert supported Eddard, never leaving him alone and trying to comfort him whenever he lost hope. Eddard owed him so much he thought he could never repay his friend. From time to time, he felt guilty, mainly because he didn't tell Robert everything about the Tourney at Harrenhal. Keeping those details secret was more difficult sometimes and that day's butchery had aroused his remorse.

After the fight by the gates of Gulltown, Arryn led his men throughout the city and settled in Randyll Grafton's small castle. There was not enough room for everyone in the castle, but some inhabitants offered to host the Valemen: among them were the Arryns of Gulltown, a cadet branch of House Arryn. Jon Arryn despised them because they chose to wed merchant's daughters and lived in luxury. Their attempt to be back in his good graces irritated him even more and he expressed his anger about them during the supper while Robert and Eddard tasted Grafton's best wines.

Their ride throughout the Vale and the fight in the meadows had tired them, so Eddard quickly went to Grafton's children's bedroom, which would be his for the night. Once lying on the featherbed, he kept going over and over the last events. _All this is going too fast. I'm not ready for a war in which everyone in the realm will have to take sides. What will happen if my Bannermen don't want to follow me in this war? I'm not Brandon. Brandon would have known exactly what to do, what to tell them._

Ned rolled over in bed for an hour before deciding he would talk to Robert. He wanted to tell him all he kept secret since the tourney, no matter how Robert would react. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, got on his feet and put on some clothes. The corridors of Grafton's castle were silent and barely lit; he made his way to Robert's room and knocked. No one answered. For a few heartbeats, he hesitated and thought of going back to bed, but he knew he could not sleep before easing his conscience. His bare feet were cold on the red tiles of the floor as long as he stayed still, so he decided to explore the castle.

Robert would likely be downstairs, paying homage to Grafton's wine cellar. On the first floor, some of Arryn's men snored in the hall where they had their supper; Ned avoided them and made for the kitchens. All of a sudden, he heard bottles tinkling in the kitchens and smiled: Robert would be there, drunk and happy to find someone who would help him to get back to his room. Since Lyanna's abduction, every time he was sad, Robert would comfort him and drink for both of them, but in the end, it was Ned who always made sure his friend ended the night in his own bed instead of collapsing in some corner of the Eyrie. Knowing for sure he would find Robert in his cups, he pushed the wooden door and froze.

At the end of the large table where the cooks had forgotten the leftovers of their supper, three green bottles banged together and tinkled at a regular pace; on the other side, a kitchen maid, naked and out of breath, was sat on the edge of the table, Robert between her legs. His breeches on his ankles, panting and cursing in the girl's neck, Robert was not aware of his presence, but she was. In the dim light provided by the hearth on his right, he saw her turning her head and granting him with an impish smile.

"Robert will never keep one bed," Lyanna had told him once. He had taken Robert's side, swearing love would turn his friend into a different person. _It was at the beginning of the Tourney. It was a thousand years ago._

His sister's clear-sightedness almost hurt him at that instant and he came in, then slammed the door, at the risk of awakening the entire castle. Suddenly frightened, the girl hung onto Robert's shoulder and he turned his head in astonishment. As Ned walked toward them, he caught a glimpse of her: light brown hair, turned-up nose and small breasts. Taking his cold stare as a tribute to her beauty, she mocked him.

"Is the little lord angry because he wanted me to warm his bed?"

"Get out!" Eddard shouted, and he threw a dirty woolen dress to her.

Despite the awkward situation, Robert protested and gesticulated. The girl left the edge of the table and walked on tiptoe to the hearth, not without showing him her rounded ass. While getting dressed, she peered at them. Robert didn't seem to understand why someone had interrupted him; unashamedly, he turned to Eddard and waved his big hands, his breeches still on his ankles.

Ned held himself back as long as he could, but once the girl was gone, he lost his temper.

"How dare you!" he bellowed, not caring about the men sleeping nearby.

"Oh, please!" Robert said. "Don't tell me you never fucked a maid!"

Ned burst into an involuntary fit of nervous laughter.

"You don't understand, Robert. What are we fighting for? Why did those men die today?"

"We want to overthrow the Mad King and kill this Targaryen bastard named Rhaegar. Westeros will never be the same."

Ned shook his head.

"We don't fight for the same reason, then. Perhaps we don't take part in the same war. I fight because Aerys destroyed my family and because I want my sister back. My sister, Robert. The girl you were betrothed to, the one you were supposed to cherish. And you spend your nights tumbling kitchen maids?"

Anger and sadness overwhelmed him so that he felt dizzy. He didn't know if he wanted to hit Robert or to cry. In the end, sorrow prevailed and he leaned against on the edge of the table.

"We don't even know where Lyanna is," Robert said, as an excuse.

Ned collapsed on the bench, elbows on his knees, and cradled his pounding head. He heard fabric rustling and understood Robert was finally getting dressed. A few heartbeats later, the green bottles tinkled again and the bench creaked. When he opened his eyes, Robert was sat beside him, pouring wine in a cup.

* * *

**Jon**

He woke up one day and Lady Ashara Dayne was gone. In the absurd kingdom Aerys ruled, people disappeared and died without rhyme or reason: the Red Keep's learned assembly noticed she was missing but preferred to turn a blind eye to this strange event. They all pretended nothing had occurred and focused on pointless matters such as the next tourney and the early ripening of the royal gardens' pomegranates.

Jon didn't care about Ashara Dayne; however, it was not the first time someone left the Red Keep from one day to the next. He didn't need to love her, like poor Ser Barristan, to be obsessed with Ashara's mysterious disappearance. He wanted to know if her hasty departure had something to do with her brother's absences and there was only one person who could answer to his questions: Lord Varys.

Jon didn't count the Lyseni eunuch among his friends: though they were of an age, it was nearly impossible to find two more different persons in King's Landing. He presented himself as a soldier, taciturn, whose life went like clockwork between his duties in court and the ones he had in the Stormlands, whereas the master of whisperers was an unctuous foreigner, clever and crafty, loving secrets and conspiracies as much as garish silken clothes and scented powder. No doubt Varys would read his mind, even before Jon asked about Lady Ashara.

Despite his aversion for nosy people and his usual awkwardness whenever he met the eunuch, Jon found himself knocking at Lord Varys' door two days after Ashara's disappearance. The bald man welcomed him in his apartments with an obsequious yet surprised smile and closed the door behind him. _Right in the Spider's web. Curiosity will kill me someday._

His eyes roamed through the gorgeous quarters Varys lived in, observing the sophisticated furniture and expensive carpets selected and arranged with an exquisite taste: the embellishment made by the eunuch now that the king trusted him more and more reflected the master of whisperers' refinement and sense of scenery.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Varys asked. "I guess a man who is always in a hurry, like you, doesn't knock at my door without a good reason. Besides, I have a couple of ideas about the motives of your unexpected visit. Tell me everything, and we'll see if I was right."

"Are we playing games, now?" Jon growled.

"Don't fly off the handle, my lord, I never meant to offend you," he replied, chuckling. "I suppose your visit is related to Lady Ashara's sudden departure."

Jon opened his eyes wide, even if he knew the eunuch's sagacity.

"Aye, we all noticed the lady-in-waiting was gone," Varys said in an almost apologetic tone. "I feel for Princess Elia. And so do you, of course."

A sly expression appeared on his face, as he stressed these last words. _Bloody eunuch._ _He's teasing me._

"Why did she leave the capital?" Jon finally asked as his guest offered him a seat.

"Why would a young and beautiful woman attending a princess leave court?" Varys whispered, carefully sitting on a pile of cushions. "I didn't know you had such an interest for her, my lord. I always thought-"

An evasive smile on his full lips, he paused and Jon grasped the sides of his armchair.

"Watch yourself, Lord Varys," he grunted.

"I don't judge you. I would even say it requires a certain amount of strength to stay here after his wedding. I would call it self-sacrifice or rather recklessness now that we know the prince has a relationship with the Northern girl."

Jon tried to ignore the anger growing inside him and looked at the eunuch straight in the eyes.

"Does her absence have something to do with... Lyanna Stark?" he asked.

"What a curious theory! How would Princess Elia's faithful lady-in-waiting change sides and take care of the princess' love rival? You still have many things to learn about human relationships, my lord."

"I didn't came here for a lesson, Varys. Why did she leave King's Landing overnight?"

The master of whisperers smoothed his purple silk tunic.

"What is the worst enemy of a young and lovely lady-in-waiting?"

"Let's skip the charades. I don't have the slightest idea."

"Pregnancy."

Before Jon could realize what he said, Varys went on.

"You certainly remember the baleful Tourney at Harrenhal. During the festivities, Lady Ashara danced with three men: Ser Barristan, the young Eddard Stark and you. I'd wager her child's father is among them. Let me think about it... Barristan the Bold was never bold with women, so we can consider he's not the father. I would draw the same conclusions about the young Stark. Who stays in the race? You."

"You have a curious sense of humor, Varys," Jon rasped, leaning forward.

"Your feelings for the prince don't mean you can't enjoy feminine beauty and Lady Ashara is a beauty, isn't she?"

Appalled, Jon sat back in his armchair, looking into the void.

"Of course, it can't be you," the eunuch said, repressing a smile. "You're not the kind of man who betrays his love. Still, Lady Ashara's personal life remains a closed book and I must admit I don't know whose child it is."

"You fall short of your reputation," Jon commented. The bald man's failure delighted him. "So she went back to Dorne?"

"My little birds say so," Varys sighed.

Jon got on his feet, eager to put an end to their interview. The eunuch suddenly waved his chubby hand, as if to stop him.

"I don't know who was Lady Ashara's lover, but there are a couple of things I learned, lately," he said in an undertone. "Did you know that after Jon Arryn raised his banners, half of the Vale noblemen refused to follow him? The lord of Gulltown, Randyll Grafton was their leader. No doubt he wanted to take advantage of the situation once the rebellion was over and lusted after the Eyrie. The Hand of the King could have helped him in his undertaking, but Lord Merryweather trifles with the rebellion."

"So Arryn is now fighting in the Vale against his own Bannermen?" Jon asked.

"I wish he was. He defeated Grafton and Robert Baratheon is now sailing to the Stormlands. He'll soon have a host and so will the young Stark. Three of the Seven Kingdoms in open rebellion because the Hand fears the king's reaction."

"I should go back to the Stormlands and fight Baratheon-"

"Certainly not, my lord. You'll have a role to play. Later on."

Jon shook his head; the eunuch exasperated him with his secrets and his condescending attitude. He gave him a cold stare as Varys stood up and smoothed his loose tunic.

"We are not so different you and I," he told Jon, stepping forward.

"Not so different?" Jon repeated, snorting. "Come on, Lord Varys."

"No, we are not that different. We're faithful to the Targaryens, even when they take foolish decisions, like falling in love with the Stark girl or roasting her father because he dared to protest. Even when they refuse to see the impending danger, you and I will defend their interests. I'm afraid this loyal attitude is not so common in the Red Keep. That's why someday, when things turn badly – because hardships await the realm, that's an absolute certainty – we'll need to unite our strengths and fight the king's enemies."

Varys lost his subservient and hypocritical tone and gazed at him intensely.

"Still, there may be a difference between you and me, my lord," he added, tilting his head. "I will always use my qualities at the service of the royal family whereas you would give your life for only one Targaryen. Sacrifice is very noble, but what's the point if all Aegon's descendants are sent in exile or murdered? Lord Connington, I'm not asking you if you will fight for Prince Rhaegar, because I know you will. Will you fight for the entire royal family? If you decide to do whatever it takes to protect them, you can think of me as an ally."

In his small eyes disappearing behind heavy eyelids, Jon could only see the eunuch's concern for the Targaryens.

* * *

**Sandor**

He was sleeping a dreamless sleep when a pair of hands seized him and dragged him on the wooden floor of his room. Tybolt, the young page who slept beside him, began to scream in fear and protested, but someone commanded him to keep quiet. Sandor thrashed about, but the intruder – it was dark and he couldn't see anything – pinned him to the ground and pummeled his face and his rib cage.

There were two persons now; one made sure he didn't move and gagged him while the other one kicked his bare legs. Lying on his belly, he couldn't do anything: when he extended his arm to reach something useful – a stick, a chamber pot, anything with which he could hit them – his hand met his attacker's heel and the gag muffled his shouting. _Why?_

"Let's turn him over, for a change," a hissing voice suggested above him. "Tybolt, give us some light."

"What do you have in mind?" the other one growled in Sandor's ear.

"Take a piss."

All of a sudden, Sandor realized who they were and why they had something against him. _Serrett and Peckledon. They didn't stomach their defeat._ _Serret blames me for his humiliation._ As the pressure on his back seemed lighter, he understood this might be his only chance to escape them.

"I drank a lot tonight," Serrett said. "Made sure my bladder was full for the bastard."

The knight-to-be gave a raucous laughter and slowly raised, his big hand still on his victim's back. Sandor's elbow reached his jaw and Peckledon fell with all his weight on the floor. When Sandor got on his feet, the page had finally lit the candle and fear made Serrett wince.

Defeating two older boys one after the other was not enough; they came for him at the same time, at night, taking him unaware. Their cowardice almost elated him. _Father would have loved that._ Lord Clegane would have been proud, though he was not generous with paternal pride. _Buggers!_ _As if it was the first time someone intended to beat me up in the middle of the night..._

Tybolt cowered on his pallet, while Sandor threw himself on Serrett and began to hit indifferently his face, his stomach and his chest. However hard Serrett protested, his whining didn't covered his accomplice's groan.

"I won!" Sandor said and his voice, distorted by anger, sounded even more high-pitched. "You hear me? I won," he repeated, careless of the racket they made.

The door suddenly creaked open and Kevan Lannister's massive figure appeared. He only wore a pair of breeches.

"What's going on, here?" he shouted.

"My teeth, Ser, the Clegane boy broke my teeth!" Peckledon complained, crawling to the door.

"Help me!" Serrett begged. "He assaulted us."

No matter how absurd it seemed, Serrett repeated Sandor had attacked them in his own room. How they came in and why he would beat bloody two older boys didn't seem to disturb the squire.

"He lies!" Sandor replied, "They sought revenge after I defeated them. I was asleep when they came and started beating me."

"Very well. Tell me then why I found you thumping Serrett when I came in? Tell me who broke Peckledon's teeth – and probably his nose?"

Folding his arms over his little paunch, Kevan ignored Sandor's bruises, and slowly turned to Tybolt.

"What did you see, boy?"

Frightened, the boy cringed. Without any other warning than slow footsteps in the corridor, Tywin arrived; Sandor noticed he was fully dressed, whether he didn't left his room before putting his clothes on or didn't go to bed yet.

"I found Clegane's son beating up the two squires, but he persists in saying they started the fight," Kevan told his elder brother. "I always told you too many pages and squires in Casterly Rock was a problem-"

"Not now, Kevan. Why would Clegane beat them in his room, in the first place?"

_Father always praised Tywin's intelligence. He understands what happened. He won't punish me._

"My page saw everything," Kevan said. "What did you see, Tybolt?"

Tybolt shook his head and gave them a poor excuse.

"I don't know... I didn't see anything. I was asleep," he whimpered.

"Children quarreling," Kevan summed up. "I'll tell Symon to flog Serrett and Peckledon until they bleed. Thirty whip lashes for Clegane."

"No," Tywin said coldly.

_He believes me. _Sandor suddenly felt relieved.

"Serrett and Peckledon did attack him. Have them whipped, if you feel like it. Lock Clegane in the dungeon. That's for ruining a future knight's face. Water and bread, five days. That's for disturbing me when I work late. Send him to the maester first; he'll have a look at his black eye."

* * *

Back in the maester's tower, he felt ill-at-ease. Casterly Rock's maester, a frail creature with a grey beard, deaf in one ear and smelling of thyme and herbs, had been waken up in the middle of the night. The old man rubbed his eyes and yawned once in a while: a mute reproach to the young trouble maker Kevan Lannister had commanded him to examine.

Shambling on the creaky wooden floor, the old man lit all the candles and gestured to the pallet. Sandor sat there and let the maester scrutinize the bruises on his arms, legs and rib cage.

"Contusions," the maester said with a quavering voice. "Nothing serious. Lie down."

The old man stared at his face for a minute and Sandor understood he didn't care for his black eye. He clenched his jaw, waited and prayed the Seven, if they ever existed, to help him. The old man brushed his dark hair aside, to gaze at his scars and the scent of thyme became stronger. Though he avoided mirrors, Sandor had quite a good idea of what his burnt side look like: when healing, the skin had turned into something thick and red. There were craters oozing pus and, by places, his scars cracked. He didn't need a bonehead maester to remind him his disfigurement.

"What happened?" the old man asked. His bluntness made Sandor jump. People were usually so frightened or disgusted by his face they never asked for details. _Father already gave them details._ How his bedding had caught fire and wounded his youngest son. _Convenient details everyone preferred to the truth_, he thought bitterly. The bleary-eyed maester nodded to encourage him.

"I fell," Sandor replied.

The old man neither commented his answer nor took care of his black eye; he stayed there, leaning over him in the flickering light a dozen candles provided and had a careful look at his face. At first, Sandor felt angry and clenched his fists, repressing the urge to beat him. The maester blinked from time to time, trying to adjust his old eyes to the dim light; under his insistent gaze, he was vulnerable. He yielded to this feeling of weakness and closed his eyes tightly. As the maester's look lingered on him, he realized the man could read his scars and knew for sure what had happened the day he had played with Gregor's discarded toy. Perhaps someone had whispered to the maester the rumors leaking out of Clegane's Keep, perhaps he was more sagacious than the other ones: he knew the truth all the same.

Sandor hated him for gazing at his scars and seeing right through him. When the old man applied balm on his black eye, his muscles tensed up in the tremendous effort he made to conceal his feelings. _I want to be as still as a stone; no grimace, no smile, nothing he could use against me. _

In the end, the smell of thyme faded and he became aware the maester was done with him; he opened his eyes and saw the man bending over a table to reach a cloth and clean his hands. Sandor didn't wait for his command to get on his feet, he grabbed his clothes and he walked to the door, deliberately forgetting to give his thanks.

* * *

_Five days_, Tywin had said. Five days seemed like five years to him. As long as he remembered, Sandor loved to live in the open air. He was certainly not cramped for room in the large twenty feet high cell Kevan Lannister locked him in, but he missed daylight and the caress of a gentle breeze on his face. He heard men shouting and the shrieking voices of pages in the yard, carts lugged around and swords clanging together: that was how he knew it was daytime. At dusk, the only noise came from the birds of prey chasing nearby: he remembered his father's lessons and recognized ospreys and falcons thanks to their cry. Later on, lying on the straw, he listened to the owls screeching.

He couldn't even complain: the dungeon didn't stink nor was filthy and he had a bucket as a replacement for a chamber pot. On the second day, a young crippled servant offered him a basin of water, so that he could wash his face and hands. There wasn't even mice in his cell to keep him company: Tywin would not tolerate rodents in the castle. All the rooms he had visited so far were as clean and tidy as possible, revealing the Lord of Casterly Rock's high sense of order. Nothing to do with the pigsty Gregor had once shut him in for two days, taking advantage of their father's absence.

_Bread and water._ He was not new to lack of food but he had plenty of time to think about his hunger and to listen to his stomach gurgling. He salivated every time the crippled servant entered, bearing a torch and a plate; the contents of his dish hardly changed. It was either brown or black bread, nothing nourishing enough for a boy of ten-and-two.

Sat on the rather fresh straw, he wrapped his arms around on his knees and waited. Serrett and Peckledon would not attack him again. _Once bitten, twice shy; and on top of that, they are both cowards._ However, something puzzled him, more than the other squires' mute hostility or Kevan's distrust: why in Seven Hells Tywin had punished him if he knew he didn't start the fight? _'That's for ruining a future knight's face, that's for disturbing me when I work late'_: dubious explanations, really. There had to be another reason, but the meaning of all this eluded him.

On the late afternoon of the third day – the master-at-arms' booming voice was gone and the squires didn't shriek anymore – a key rattling in the keyhole startled him. It wasn't the crippled boy's hour: he had already come earlier with stale bread and a jug of water. Sandor jumped on his feet and leaned against the bars of his cell; at first, he only saw a tall figure half-lit by a torch, standing straight in the corridor leading to the dungeon. _Him? Why would he come here?_ The stately demeanor and the slow footsteps confirmed his visitor was the Lord of Casterly Rock himself. He stopped in front of the door, holding his torch so that he could look at Sandor, and for a heartbeat, there was a half-smile on his noble face.

* * *

**Thanks for reviewing and following this fic!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Sandor**

For a few heartbeats, Tywin Lannister remained silent and Sandor stared at the burning torch, holding his breath and slowly walking backwards in his cell. The Lord of Casterly Rock noticed his unease, for he looked at the torch, then put it in the metallic support on the wall behind him.

"My Lord," Sandor finally said, eyes downcast. "I disturbed your work, I beg forgiveness."

Tywin gestured as if to prevent him from saying anything else.

"But you don't apologize for beating those squires, do you?" he asked Sandor.

The boy didn't know the correct answer, so he shrugged.

"Your black eye disappeared," Tywin commented, folding his arms. "Good. Cleganes have the merit of healing quickly. Do you know why I'm here?"

Sandor shook his head and watched his overlord when he grabbed a discarded stool the crippled servant kept in a corner and sat on it. Sandor's stomach gurgled and he wondered if Tywin would get mad at him for disturbing the silence of the dungeon.

"It's been a while since I last sent someone here," Tywin went on, lost in his thoughts. His eyes lingered on the walls carved out of the rock, then to the ceiling. "I usually don't need to. People find it easier to obey."

_He's pissed off,_ Sandor mused. _That's unfair, I only defended myself._

"Don't scowl at me," Tywin suddenly commanded. "I didn't send you here to punish you. Remember what I told you the other night: I know you didn't attack them."

_Why then?_ He stared at his liege lord while the latter shifted on the stool and crossed his long legs.

"You're an interesting person, Clegane. If this half-witted boy from House Banefort didn't already serve me, I would have chosen you as a squire. Maybe next year, once Banefort is knighted... Kevan wouldn't mind if I steal his own squire, he dislikes you."

Puzzled, Sandor didn't move. The harder he reflected on Tywin's words, the less he understood.

"Do you know why I sent you in the dungeon?" Tywin asked, leaning forward.

"You sent me in the dungeon because you were angry, my lord." In his eyes, it was the only sensible answer, but the man shook his head.

"No, not at all, boy. I sent you to this cell because I'm happy with you."

_It doesn't make any sense._ Sandor wondered if it was a trick.

"And I let my brother whip the squires because I couldn't care less. Tell me, boy, what will happen to these boys within five or ten years?"

Sandor shook his head again.

"Of course, you don't know," Tywin muttered. "Well, they are both their father's youngest son, which means they'll never inherit their family's lands and titles. They'll do their best to become knights and they'll probably succeed, they'll go from tourney to tourney and dream of being declared champion. A few days ago, I didn't care about them and didn't even think of their future. Thanks to you, I learned what kind of boys they are. In peace time, young arrogant knights like Peckledon and Serrett will be soon take part in tourneys and die because even if they're good at jousting, there's always someone more gifted than them. In war time, they die because they're not as strong as their opponents. And because they make terrible decisions, like assaulting you in the middle of the night."

He paused and observed Sandor's confused expression.

"I don't know if you're good or bad at jousting, boy. I'd wager you don't care about tourneys, because tourneys are not for real. To be completely honest with you, jousting and mêlée bore me. You're different from Serrett and Peckledon. You take it seriously when you fight and I respect that. That's why you're here: you didn't come to Casterly Rock to be coddled. You're here because I can give you bed and board as long as you fight for me."

"I'll fight for you, my lord," Sandor said, eyes pleading, but standing very straight.

His high-pitched voice brought a half-smile on Tywin's lips.

"How is it possible that a tall and broad-shouldered lad has such a girlish voice?" he exclaimed. "It doesn't matter. You need to train daily to improve your skills. You need to harden yourself. There will be battles soon."

"Is it why you were working so late?" Sandor asked, growing more confident.

Tywin nodded.

"Lords of the Vale, the North and the Stormlands rebelled against King Aerys. Sooner or later, I'll have to engage my host in this war," he said thoughtfully.

"I want to fight with you, my lord, when you rescue the king."

Coming to Aerys' help and taking part in a real war sounded more exciting than anything else; Sandor stepped forward, leaned against the bars of his cell and locked eyes with his visitor.

"Did I say I will fight for the king?" Tywin asked, his green gaze shining. "I didn't make a decision yet. As my guest, you'll fight for the side I choose."

"Of course, my lord."

Tywin arose and planted himself in front of the door, his long fingers brushing the lock. Immediately, Sandor ran to the corner where he left his boots and tried to tidy his cell. When he was done, he got back to Tywin and waited for him to open the door. Brow furrowed, the Lord of Casterly Rock gazed at him.

"I came to talk to you, not to suspend your punishment," Tywin steadily explained. "I said five days. You have two more days to spend in here."

He ignored Sandor's begging eyes and calmly walked out of the dungeon.

* * *

Under Kevan Lannister's watchful gaze, the crippled servant turned the key in the lock and slowly opened the door of his cell. Free, at last. After five days spent in the dark, living on bread and water, Sandor was so weak he didn't know if it was day or night; he only remembered he was asleep when they came. The lame boy who brought food everyday gave him a curious look and he felt like a wild animal out of his cage.

Kevan's frowned and commanded Sandor to follow him; they left the dungeon located in the depths of the castle and began to climb one of the never-ending spiral staircases of Casterly Rock. Sluggishly, they made progress in the chilly and unlit flights of stairs; Sandor was so unsteady on his feet the climb itself looked like an adventure, like exiting the Seven Hells and getting back to the world of the living. Finally, Kevan led him to a corridor poorly lit by candles; outside, a waning crescent moon cast a blueish light. It was later than he thought.

"What time is it, Ser?" Sandor asked.

"The hour of the wolf. The same hour I locked you in the dungeon when you fought with the squires. Five days are five days."

_Did Tywin command him to free me exactly five days after I stepped in the dungeon?_ He didn't dare to ask, but Kevan seemed furious, as if he had been disturbed in his sleep. They walked through the corridors, climbed more stairways and arrived in front of the room he shared with Tybolt. Without ever looking back, Kevan left him and headed to his apartments.

When he entered his room and sat on the pallet, Tybolt snored, head backwards and gaping._ In the dungeon, at least, everything was quiet._ Lying curled up in a ball, he felt tired but couldn't get to sleep. He was ravenous and knew he couldn't get some rest before eating. It was not gluttony: he needed some food. Silently, he left his pallet and opened the door: the corridor seemed empty. He walked on tiptoe on the wooden floor, reached the staircase and made his way to the kitchens.

During the five days he spent in the dungeon, Sandor had become obsessed with the larder: he dreamed of ham and sausages, let his mind wander around the shelves full of bacon, pâtés and legs of lamb. The kitchens were perfectly silent and by chance, no kitchen maid slept there. Thanks to the meager light provided by the fire, he found the larder's door and slowly opened it. The smell was so rich, with fragrances of salt and smoked meat tickling his nostrils, he nearly fainted and needed to lean back on the door. _Careful now: nobody needs to know I was here. If I got locked in the dungeon five days for defending myself, I'll spend the next moons in a cell for stealing food._

All of a sudden, before he could decide what he would pick, a muffled noise startled him and he hid himself in the darkest corner of the tiny room, hitting a large ham hanging from the ceiling. The intruder, whoever it was, headed directly to the larder: underneath the door, he could see the light of a lantern dancing on the red tiles and coming closer. He swallowed hard, ruing his decision of sneaking in the kitchens and thinking of the black bread he would eat for days in the dungeon, when the door creaked open.

Fat Jeyne's pot-bellied figure appeared, holding a candle lantern; in her nightgown and woolen shawl, she seemed heavier than the last time they met.

"Seven save us, what are you doing here?" she hissed, her chest heaving, and she put the lantern on the nearest shelf.

Sandor thought of running away, but standing on the threshold, she blocked his path; he nevertheless decided to force his way out, guessing he would leave her behind easily. He threw himself on the cook, convinced she would step aside and let him go. To his great surprise, she put up resistance and clung on to him, preventing him from leaving the larder. Using all her weight, she stood in his way and crushed Sandor to her big breasts; soon he couldn't kick her and when she tightened her grip on him, he couldn't move anymore.

After a few heartbeats, he stopped struggling with her and stood up straight as soon as she released her hold on him. She wasn't so impressive this way; he was taller than Fat Jeyne and her face seemed tired.

"There," she cawed. "You little monster. Thought you could sneak in the larder and eat whatever you want? Say you're sorry."

Looking down and observing his feet black with filth, he complied.

"Are you going to tell Ser Kevan I stole food?" he added, anxious.

"No, 'cause you didn't. You only awoke me and tried to escape. And kicked my old legs."

"I'm sorry," he repeated, glancing at her.

Hands on her hips, she gave him a long disapproving look.

"What am I going to do with you, Sandor?"

_She remembers my name._ Nobody called him 'Sandor' in Casterly Rock. He knew he should have been moved, however, her familiarity disturbed him and he felt the urge to run away, like some young wild animal.

"I'd better go to bed," he said, avoiding her gaze.

"Where have you been? I didn't see you in days."

Someone wondering where he was and caring for him seemed completely unnatural. He shifted from foot to foot.

"I... was in the dungeon. I hit squires. But they hit me first," he explained, ashamed.

"The dungeon, huh? I'd wager they barely gave you something to eat. Is it why-"

She gestured at the shelves heavy with smoked sausages and hams and he nodded in acquiescence. Her lips twisted in a motherly smile.

"Well, since we're both awake..." she sighed, extending her pudgy hand to reach a plate of smoked bacon. "Go sit down, boy."

Sandor watched her as she prepared eggs with bacon. For fear he was starving, she added some gruel and put the food in front of him, with a gap-toothed smile. _She looks like an ogress, an ogress who remembers my name._

"Can I have some wine?" he asked, knowing gruel would make him thirsty.

"Only watered wine for you, boy!" she exclaimed, ruffling his hair.

She stood up behind him while he ate, keeping an eye on Sandor. With every gulp of food, he felt better but began to wonder what she had in mind and why she was good to him. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he turned to Fat Jeyne.

"I once had a son," she muttered, as if answering to his silent question. "Big eater, he was. Like you. He died, years ago. A fever."

Sandor wanted to say something, but words were stuck in his throat.

"But you don't care, do you?" Fat Jeyne added. "I'm pretty sure you're a decent lad, Sandor. There will always be something for you in the kitchens as long as you promise not to steal food. Just ask Fat Jeyne."

She sighed heavily and he saw unshed tears in her small eyes.

"Go to bed, now. When this codger who calls himself a master-at-arms is done with you, come here and I'll give you some more gruel. With jam, if you're a good boy."

* * *

**Eddard**

The companions Jon Arryn had given him hated those swamps and the reed thickets of the Neck; the flat landscape of the bogs stunned him, as far as the eye could see, with its green-yellowish tufts of grass, its streams snaking in the plains covered with moss. Arryn had deliberately forgotten to tell his men about crossing the damp treacherous lands of the Neck, if their bad mood and silent reproaches were any indication.

Traveling in that part of Westeros was obviously not child's play, once the riders had left the causeway to find the siege of House Reed: they had to stay together, to be even more vigilant when the ground became soft as a pillow under the hooves of their horses and when the frogs croaked noisily. His own reaction astonished him, but Eddard put up with the dangerous path and shrugged off the sultry weather and the myriad of insects – flies, midges, dragonflies – overrunning the place. Strange to say, the slender reeds bending with the wind soothed his nerves and made him feel more serene. Even the knights' interrogations about how they would find Greywater Watch, a castle only crannogmen could locate, didn't spoil his good mood. When a rider emerged from behind a reed thicket in the late afternoon sun, gawky on his horse, Eddard immediately knew who he was._ Howland. My friend._ Arryn's men didn't believe their eyes as the frail crannogman came closer on his old horse and welcomed them with a warm yet nervous smile.

"Do you see, Ned?" Howland Reed said pulling the reins. "I bought a horse and I'm practicing everyday. I'm getting better."

Though he almost fell from his saddle when trying to dismount, Howland kept his broad grin and embraced Eddard, ignoring the cutting remarks of the Valemen about his nag.

Howland led them to his father's castle built on a floating island and the proud knights of the Vale whispered to each other, discovering the modest dimensions and strange architecture of the keep. Brow furrowed, they learned there were no maester, no master-at-arms, no knights in the biggest castle of the area. Even the scent of peat fires seemed to offend them. After a while, Eddard doubted they ignored those facts about the Neck and thought they only tried to be as nasty as possible. He glared at Ser Dennis Waynwood when he compared the keep with the tiny thatched houses they had seen during their ride.

After the supper, Howland and Eddard left the Valemen in the Great Hall of the castle, went to Howland's apartments and almost collapsed in two armchairs smelling of old leather next to the fireplace.

"I can gather all the forces of the Neck," Howland promised his guest. "The Blackmyres, the Fenns, the Crays, the Quaggs... They're men of honor, they will help us. They don't have enough horses, though. Some _don't_ have horses."

"Winterfell will provide mounts," he replied, mesmerized by the blue and pale yellow flames coming from peat bricks.

Silently, Howland jumped on his feet and began to stoke the fire. As far as Eddard knew, people used the hearth even in summertime, in damp places like the Neck. When Howland turned and faced him again, his big green eyes had changed and in his triangular face resolution gave way to melancholy.

"I wish we would of met in different circumstances," he added. "Are there any clues of where she is?"

Eddard shook his head.

"Once you got some rest, we'll ride to Winterfell," Howland said. "I'm coming with you."

"You said you would gather your Bannermen," Eddard retorted.

"My father doesn't need me here to call them and make sure they're ready. You need my company more than he does. Unless... you prefer to ride alone with those buttoned-down knights of the Vale."

Eddard laughed heartily, for the first time in days.

"Gods, I can't stand their contemptuous looks anymore!"

"Oh, there is no maester here?" Howland exclaimed, mimicking Waynwood and his companions. "You don't have any master-at-arms? You don't have knights in the Neck? How can you organize tourneys if you don't have knights?"

Howland's simpering voice and scandalized look was such a good imitation of Ser Dennis that Eddard convulsed with laughter. As his host began to ape the Valemen on their horses, back straight and riding haughtily, cantering throughout the room, hilarity elicited a few tears at the corner of Eddard's eyes.

"I'm afraid we don't have tourneys in the Neck, Ser," Howland replied to the imaginary knight. "That's why crannogmen go South to watch people jousting."

Ned's laughter immediately vanished and Howland stopped his imitation of the Valemen. They were both thinking of the same tourney now, the one Lord Whent had organized in Harrenhal some months ago. The memory of their first meeting made Eddard smile thoughtfully for a heartbeat, but his lips soon twisted in a bitter expression.

* * *

Eddard thought he would feel at home as soon as he would catch sight of the massive granite walls and the watch turrets. In the dreams he had night after night, he saw the crenels silhouetted on the cloudy sky and she was there, slender figure waiting for him and waving her arms in anticipation. Lyanna and Winterfell were indivisible; whenever Eddard was in Winterfell, his sister warmed the northern castle with her laughter and exuberant manners. On the few occasions when they met out of Winterfell, she always seemed to bring with her tiny pieces of the castle: not only news of the servants and people living there, but also habits they had, memories they shared, even something in her grey eyes that reminded him of the Northern sky. There was not another member of the Stark family whom he associated so deeply to Winterfell.

_What will Winterfell look like without her?_ The granite walls were still there, and the King's gate welcomed them at the end of the King's Road, with its postern and the lonely guard who immediately recognized him. After the drawbridge, he noticed the moat water was as murky as before, passed the high inner walls and dismounted in front of the Great Keep. Benjen was already hurrying himself through the yard, pushing aside the maester and the servants and ignoring the Valemen's disapprobation.

"My brother," Benjen said, fighting back his tears. Forgetting they were not alone, he threw himself in Eddard's arms and clutched him. _That's just the two of us, now._ As Howland tentatively jumped from his saddle and stepped forward, however standing at some distance from them, Eddard realized they offered a strange sight to Arryn's men; the Stark siblings, in each other's arms, Benjen sobbing against his elder brother's shoulder and the skinny heir of the Neck sharing their sorrow but observing them with the crannogmen's proverbial discretion.

Eddard always felt clumsy when people expressed their emotions like his younger brother did; he hesitantly patted Benjen's shoulder wondering how he could put an end to this and if he ever should. Lifting his gaze to watch the servants, he met Maester Luwin's eyes. The small man clad in a grey woolen robe smiled sadly and came closer, giving Ned a good reason to speak to him.

"Maester Luwin," he said, "I am sure you and the servants did your best to help my brother these last weeks and I am very grateful for that. Could you make sure our guests have all they need for the night?"

"Of course, my lord," Maester Luwin replied.

Luwin was right to address him this way, but the words were still unfamiliar to Eddard and he looked away. On the eaves of the Great Keep, a raven cawed, disturbing the heavy silent in the yard. For a heartbeat, Eddard imagined the scene through the bird's eyes, as if he was on the roof of the ancient tower: the company of men arriving after their long trip, looking like dots in the muddy yard of the castle, and among them, a young man, inexperienced and insecure, who was the new lord of Winterfell. He pictured all this and felt like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Servants were already taking care of the knights and the yard slowly emptied out, leaving only Maester Luwin, Howland and his brother with him. As Benjen wiped his tears, Eddard understood they all waited for him to speak.

"You'll go to the solar with us," he informed Luwin. "We have matters to discuss, I suppose."

"I took the liberty of having your lord father's apartments ready for your arrival, my lord."

The maester's reply sent chills down his spine and his back stiffened. _I need to get used to it._

* * *

Once Luwin gave him an overview of the situation in the North and told him the Stark Bannermen would fight for their cause, he let the maester go and stayed with Howland and Benjen. For the first time since his arrival, he could have a good look at his brother; the last months had been rough on him. Benjen never was a robust fellow and now he looked nothing but skin and bones. His blue eyes glistened with a mix of grief and guilt, as he hid his long face behind dark hair. An uncomfortable silence filled the room and Eddard felt the urge to speak, without finding the proper words. While he rued his inability to reassure his brother, the latter finally cleared his throat.

"I'm so sorry," Benjen said on the verge of tears. "I was always with her, I should have known, I should have done something."

"Blaming yourself won't bring her back," Eddard answered steadily.

His cold tone almost hurt him. _He's my brother, I love him, I should be able to give him the comfort he needs so desperately instead of..._

"I made a decision a few days ago," Benjen said, pointing a skinny finger at him. "What I did led to her abduction, her abduction led to Father's death and... to Brandon's death. Three lives wrecked and I'm responsible for this disaster. Criminals have two choices: their lord's justice or the Wall. I'll go to the Wall because the Night's Watch is all I deserve."

A flash of anger and frustration made Eddard jump on his feet.

"You're not going anywhere!" he bellowed. "You're too young, only ten-and-four, and you want to estrange yourself from your family? Your place is here, in this castle, not in some ruined fortress of the Wall. We're at war, Benjen, and while I'm fighting in the South, there shall be a Stark in Winterfell!"

"You don't understand!" Benjen retorted, sneering in disbelief, "you're just like Brandon when Lyanna disappeared. I can't do this anymore. I can't go on and pretend nothing happened because I feel so guilty!"

He stressed on the last words, not caring about the Valemen who could hear him if they were nearby.

"You think it's some game I play in the Great Hall, when people come to seek my advice? I'm only four-and-ten, and if I was in the Night's Watch, there would be brothers taking care of me and teaching me how to fight, how to serve. I would have hundreds of brothers instead of one brother who plans to let me down and go fighting in the South!"

Benjen clenched his fists so hard his knuckles became white and his whole figure was shaking. Eddard realized his own pain had made him forget of his brother's: ashamed, he looked through the window and what he saw – the dark green woods in the distance, behind the inner walls crenelated frame, reminded him of Lyanna, as everything did in Winterfell.

_Can't you understand it's the only choice I have?_ He turned slowly to his brother and locked eyes with the scrawny boy.

"I'm as responsible as you," he said, "and I want my sister back-"

"What did we do?" Benjen asked, choking on tears and not letting him a chance to finish his sentence.

"Will you stop this?" Howland intervened, pushing himself from his seat and squatting in front of Benjen. "What did you do, exactly? You gave her pieces of armor and stole your elder brother's weapons for her? And you?" He pointed at Eddard. "You lied for her. You lied to your father and to Brandon because your beloved sister asked you to do so. Because neither of you could refuse her anything."

Howland paused and watched them one after the other.

"And now, there's what I did. I came, and she welcomed me. She took care of me, she introduced me to you. I was a naïve boy, humiliated and ashamed, and she restored my pride. She fought for me. Nobody will ever do for me what she did. I did nothing but I gave her a purpose, and we all know where this purpose led your sister. I am the reason why all this happened. I should be the one who takes the black, by your standards, Benjen. If you think you're the only one who feels guilty, you're sorely mistaken."

With a sigh, Howland stood straight and kept his eyes on Benjen's shaking form.

"That's why we're going to do what is right. We're going South to find her. And I am personally seeking revenge for the death of my liege lord and his son, because it's loyalty. Eddard's not only your brother, now. He's your lord. As your lord and your brother, he commands you to stay here and be the Stark in Winterfell, until he returns. You will do so, because you're a loyal young man."

His tone surprised both Starks who were not used to such a resolution in the crannogman.

"And if you desperately want to take an oath, we can go to the godswood," Howland added. "We'll swear to do whatever it takes to find Lyanna and to play our part as we just decided. We'll swear not to talk about the Tourney with anyone else because the Knight of the Laughing Tree is a truth who could swallow us like it already swallowed your father and brother."

When Howland left the solar, striding in the corridor with an astonishing self-confidence, Eddard and Benjen followed him to the godswood. By the cold pool, under the weirwood's red foliage, they stood and took their oath repeating the words Howland had said. In the end, Eddard's look lingered on the face carved in the bark: the eyes seemed ready to shed tears and the corners of the mouth were pulled downwards, in a sad grimace.

* * *

**Jon**

Now that the Stormlands had become a battlefield and that everyone in King's Landing agreed to call the recent events Robert's Rebellion, the Red Keep was astir. Lord Owen Merryweather, the jocund old man who replaced Tywin Lannister as the Hand of the King, bore the responsibility of the royal defeat in Summerhall. _Three battles and three defeats in a day: how is it fucking possible?_ This amazing event disconcerted everyone – and Jon lost his propriety.

A few hours ago, as he returned to his apartments, Jon had heard voices whispering and lamenting about a lost battle; the rumor was already spreading throughout the castle. Lords, knights and maids troubled themselves at the news and denied the obvious: the royal army could not be defeated by an inexperienced young man who was known for his foolhardiness. Yet, the hot-headed rebel had vanquished the royal army led by three lords, killed one of them and captured his son. A most disturbing rumor said the two surviving lords – Cafferen and Grandison, both of them noblemen of the Stormlands – had changed sides and rallied behind the rebels' cause.

He doubted things could be that worse, but when Varys came and knocked at his door, he began to think the persistent hearsay was true. A smug smile on his face, Varys told him his presence was needed in the Great Hall.

"The king has summoned everyone," Varys added, hiding his plump hands in his long saffron sleeves. "He is furious after what happened in Summerhall. Summerhall, such a tragic place for the Targaryens. The Tragedy happened what? Twenty years ago, and now-"

"Did you come here to brood over history?" Jon asked, with a hint of exasperation. "What does the king want with me? Attend another execution in the Great Hall?"

The Spider looked around, as if there could be spies behind the faded tapestries and simple furniture of Jon's apartments.

"You should be more careful, my friend," Varys warned him. "I give no credence to the rumor of Merryweather's execution. King Aerys will not do such a thing. Still..."

"What?" Jon asked, annoyed by the eunuch's simpering airs.

"The King needs your presence in the Great Hall and you will know soon enough what he plans for you."

With a courteous bow, Varys left a puzzled Jon and silently hurried on his slippers. _How can a man wear something else than boots or clogs?_

Jon convinced himself King Aerys wanted him to lead the royal army in the Stormlands and defeat Robert Baratheon. All things considered, he was more experienced on a battlefield than the three lords beaten in Summerhall, despite his young age. And the Stormlands where Robert gathered his host were familiar to him. Perhaps he was the best choice to command the royal forces and crush the young rebel in his castle of Storm's End.

He smoothed the creases on his doublet, drank a cup of red wine and walked out of his apartments; on his way to the Great Hall, people seemed to notice his brisk pace and some of them, both ladies and counselors hurrying in the same direction, greeted him with an unexpected deference._ This is it: the rumor says I'm going to the Stormlands in replacement of the three fools who got killed or came over. They show their respect to those who'll fight for them while they're still in King's Landing. And alive. But what is King Aerys going to do with Merryweather?_

In spite of its large dimensions, the Great Hall burst at the seams; from the bronze doors to the dais where was the Iron Throne, people were crammed. Courtiers had rushed to know the king's decision about his Hand, anticipating the fall of a man whose fate was already sealed. At the foot of the narrow stairs leading to the throne, stood the fat figure of Lord Owen Merryweather, waiting Aerys' entrance. On the platform, Jon noticed the dark glow of the swords forged to make the back of the throne. The high windows provided a cold, crude light inside the Great Hall, emphasizing the deleterious atmosphere. Jon had given up the idea of watching the scene, because of the crowd, when he spotted Ser Jaime Lannister's golden curls and usual smirk. Tywin Lannister's son planted himself in front of him.

"Please come with me, my lord," the knight said. "It's not a worthy place for the lord of Griffin's Roost."

Jon wondered what his beloved Griffin's Roost had to do with it; he nevertheless followed the young member of the Kingsguard down the aisle. Once again, he felt curious looks on his face and did his best to ignore them. _How many men will I have? Will the king give me free rein? When am I leaving the capital? Is Rhaegar coming with me?_

They stopped in front of the dais, near some other members of the Kingsguard. Aerys and the royal family were not there yet and the king's advisors waited patiently on his right; as for Merryweather, he was shaking like a leaf. Jon looked inquiringly at Ser Barristan Selmy, then at Lord Varys: neither of them gave him the slightest indication.

Finally, the Great Hall went silent when the royal family showed up. The herald announced the King's entrance and Aerys appeared first, his slender form surrounded by Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Arthur Dayne. _Why do I have the impression he's aged every time I see him?_ His tangled grey hair and beard didn't belong to a king, nor his excessively long nails. He stood in front of the Iron Throne, mumbling something, as his wife and sons followed him on the dais. "The King thinks out loud," courtiers reported with a sparkle of admiration in their eyes, but Jon didn't share their enthusiasm. In the small town near Griffin's Roost, there was also a man who talked to himself but people didn't sing his praises: for them, he was just the village idiot.

While his royal husband sat on the throne with a wealth of precautions, Queen Rhaella stood stoically by him and kept an eye on their youngest son; the crowd fascinated Viserys, who opened his eyes wide. Rhaegar brought up the rear. Jon immediately turned to him but his friend's impassible face remained a mystery: pale and thoughtful, almost contemplative, the Targaryen prince stopped in the shadow of the Iron Throne. Hightower and Dayne went down the stairs and Aerys cleared his throat. On Jon's right, Lord Merryweather seemed ready to faint.

"Lord Owen Merryweather," the King bellowed, though there was no need to shout in the silent Great Hall, "I trusted you. The day I gave you this badge, I put the realm in your hands. And what have you done?"

The king's tone was so vehement Jon couldn't help looking at his feet and he noticed apprehension about the people standing next to him. In Ser Jaime's green eyes, he saw a hint of nervousness, despite his proud and martial attitude.

"You failed! What happened? You sent three incompetents to fight Lord Robert Baratheon and prevent him from gathering his host. They lost. Two of them changed sides! Two of them!"

At this point, the king looked at the assembly, calling everyone as witness to Merryweather's failure. Some nodded, others whispered their concern.

"Two of them," the King repeated after a while, regaining his composure, "changed sides. Lord Cafferen and Lord Grandison. I, Aerys Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, deprive them from their lands and titles, as a just chastisement for their treason. Their lands now belong to the crown."

Aerys shifted on the throne and Queen Rhaella cocked her head for fear he cut himself on one of the blades. As she moved ever so slightly, the jade green pleated dress she wore revealed her bulging stomach and behind him, someone gasped. _She's with child._

Unaware of the assembly's curiosity toward the queen, Aerys went on.

"As for you, Lord Merryweather, the lost battle of Summerhall and its consequences feed speculation. I can't believe Cafferen and Grandison's treason is mere coincidence."

The king paused, glaring at Merryweather, and everyone, from the Kingsguards to the servants who had deserted the royal stables in order to watch the scene, held their breath. The Hand of the King glanced frantically, looking for some terrifying device which would gave him a long and painful death. He's thinking of Lord Rickard, he doesn't want to burn alive. Still, there was no pyromancer nor torture stake in the crowded Great Hall.

"History will judge you, Lord Merryweather. You are the Hand who betrayed his King and sent traitors to fight a rebel. All this was planned, I realize it now."

"No!" Merryweather protested. "I didn't betray you, Your Grace, I didn't-"

Aerys lifted his hands to shush the fat and squeaking man huddled up at the foot of the stairs.

"Enough! I am tired of lame excuses. You are no longer my Hand. You are no longer the lord of Longtable: I strip you of your lands and titles and banish you."

Panting, Merryweather raised an astonished gaze to his king. _He thought he would be sentenced to death. Why did Aerys choose to send him in exile?_ The answer came when the king turned to his eldest son; Rhaegar nodded imperceptibly. _Merryweather owes his life to Rhaegar, not to Aerys' sudden burst of leniency. Who will be the new Hand? To whom will I have to obey?_

"Out!" the king hissed in a threatening tone. "You do not belong here, now, and I have to designate the man who will rule the realm and defeat Robert of House Baratheon."

The Great Hall went silent again and Jon felt for the poor soul who would be Aerys Targaryen's third Hand. _Obey a mad king and fight a hothead. If Aerys sends me to the Stormlands, I'll do my best to help him._

"Lord Jon Connington!" the king shouted.

Startled, Jon peered at the royal family gathered around the Iron Throne; emotionless, Queen Rhaella and Prince Rhaegar looked him back._ What? Why does he calls me before calling his new Hand?_ As he didn't react fast enough, Ser Barristan Selmy grabbed his arm and brought him in front of the black throne covered with spiky blades. Jon knelt and behind him, people began to whisper.

"Lord Jon Connington," Aerys repeated, still frowning. "The realm needs someone young and strenuous. Someone as young and skilled as our enemy, someone who knows the Stormlands as well as this young rebel. Henceforth, you are the Hand of the King."

Ser Barristan Selmy tugged his sleeve and Jon stood up, then climbed the stairs leading to the Iron Throne._ It doesn't make sense, it's impossible, I'm too young..._ He knelt again in front of the king and as he ducked his head, he caught a glimpse of Lord Varys; the eunuch nodded encouragingly. _Bloody Spider! He whispered my name to the king. He should know I'm not ready._ On the throne, Aerys shifted once more.

"Lord Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost, will you serve your king loyally?"

His heart beating wildly, Jon bowed down, then raised his head.

"I will, Your Grace."

His words were for the king, but Jon was only staring at his prince.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Eddard**

Once the Stark host was ready – the Umbers, Kastarks and other Bannermen leading their archers and foot soldiers; the Crannogmen provided with decent mounts – the knights of the Vale asked if they could take their leave and Eddard agreed immediately. Neither him nor Howland would miss Ser Dennis Waynwood's presence. They headed South, as fast as they could, well aware Robert needed them in the Stormlands. _At least, Arryn's host can link up with Robert faster than I can. I hope we won't arrive when everything is already done. I hope we won't arrive too late._

He kept in touch with Arryn and Robert by the means of ravens regularly sent to each other. With each crow flying in the sky, more impatience and worry came; when he didn't see any crow in two days, anxiousness overwhelmed him and he feared Robert's death. Robert wouldn't surrender, Eddard knew it: his friend's persistence in fights always surprised him as a young man he usually was considered changeable and not consistent.

When Wyman Manderly entered his heavy canvass tent and brought him another scroll with a stag on his seal, Ned opened it eagerly, read the few lines and stormed out. The message didn't make sense and he needed Howland to confirm it; he found him with a group of Crannogmen and Northerners from the mountains. As soon as he saw his furious expression and the crumpled scroll in his hands, Howland left his friends and followed him to the edge of the woods where they had settled their camp.

"Read it," Eddard said, more stiffly than he intended.

Howland cleared his throat.

_"We fought thrice in a day near Summerhall and it ended up as another tragedy for the Targaryens. Lord Fell, who led the royalists, is dead and we rout their army. I'll soon head towards the capital and overthrow the Mad King. There is more: Cafferen and Grandison, who commanded the Targaryen army, asked my forgiveness and now fight for me..."_

The Crannogman's tone revealed his surprise and disbelief.

"Tell me, Howland, what do you think?" he asked, pacing back and forth.

Howland hesitated, still holding the scroll, then grabbed Eddard's wrist.

"Stop it, Ned. Your Bannermen are watching you."

Eddard sighed heavily, trying to exhale the anger and disappointment boiling in his mind since he read Robert's message. _Useless._

"I should calm down, that's what you think? How can I when Robert boasts himself about two lords betraying their king for him and dreams of getting rid of the king to settle another dynasty? I didn't want this."

Howland's anxious eyes went from the Bannermen watching them near a fire camp to him and back to the Northerners.

"I doubt he remembers how my father died," Eddard said bitterly. "He's forgotten my sister. Want to know how he celebrated his damn victory in Summerhall?"

His sarcastic tone clearly worried Howland, who didn't understand how he knew details about the night following Robert's success, when they were leagues away from his host.

"Drinking?" Howland shyly suggested.

His friend's temperance surprised and amused the Manderlys and the Karstarks but it was one of the things Eddard appreciated about him.

"Whoring," he told a dumb-founded Howland. "Because that's all he knows. He has the same taste for whores than Manderly for sausages and patés. He claims his love for Lyanna and his sorrow but the truth is, a rutting boar would have more sensibility."

He left Howland without ever looking back, walked briskly to his tent and met Wyman Manderly on his way. The stout lord of White Harbor furrowed his brow, afraid to hear Robert faced difficulties in the Stormlands.

"How bad is the news?" he asked Eddard, stopping him mid-stride.

"Robert won in Summerhall and routed the royal army. Cafferen and Grandison changed sides."

"What's wrong, then?"

"Nothing," Eddard spat. "Absolutely nothing."

Manderly looked so astonished a tiny, bitter laugh escaped Ned's lips while he took refuge in his tent. _I'm a fool; that what Manderly must think and he's right. I was a fool to let myself be led by Arryn and Robert: it should have been a family vendetta and nothing more. I should have fought Rhaegar myself, even if I couldn't have the upper hand... I should have resisted Lyanna when she asked me to lie, in Harrenhal._ He collapsed on his pallet, thinking of what should have been.

* * *

The cawing had startled him once more; after Robert's raven about Summerhall, he had sent back a cold, curt, emotionless message announcing their progression towards the Riverlands and now he dreaded his answer. _This is nonsense: what can he do? I'm bringing my host to him, he won't refuse my help, because I didn't congratulate him._

He pushed himself from the ground and left Rickard Karstark and the Umbers who were telling stories about the War of Conquest to the youngest members of the Northern host around a crackling fire. As he left the circle of men warming themselves by the flames behind him and entered the dark tunnel formed by two rows of tents leading to the next camp fire, he felt his chest constricting. The boy who was in charge of the ravens almost ran into Ned.

"Lord Stark, another message for you!" he exclaimed. "From Lord Arryn."

Somehow, the prospect of reading news from Arryn relieved him; he took the scroll, asked for a lantern and read it. In front of him, the boy waited for his reaction, as if taking care of the ravens allowed him to know the content of Arryn's correspondence. Eddard didn't show anything this time and got back to the fire where he had left the Umbers and Lord Karstark. They went silent when they saw his serious expression.

"I need a member of each house in my tent. As soon as possible."

When the last men came in, Eddard's tent was crowded with the Northern lords and chiefs of the Mountain clans. Some of them couldn't advise him, but he found something comforting in their presence. Howland dodged in and out of the group until he found a spot close to him. Rickard Karstark shushed everyone.

"Lord Jon Arryn sent me a raven containing both good and bad news. Robert met the royal army in Ashford; the battle remained indecisive though. He's going North, to link up with the Vale host. But there is more. Aerys dismissed Lord Merryweather and chose another Hand to get rid of us. Lord Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost. That's why I need you. I need to learn more about this man before we meet his forces."

Howland sadly shook his head. _Of course, you don't know Connington. We barely saw him in Harrenhal._

"Connington is pretty young," Manderly commented. "The youngest Hand since... Tywin Lannister, maybe."

_That's it. Aerys new move; a young man yet an experienced soldier to face Robert._

"I don't know him very well," Lord Umber rasped, "because the man is rather secretive. That said, he's very loyal. A change after the two turncloaks who decided to fight for Robert. Very close from Prince Rhaegar, as well."

Rickard Karstark cleared his throat noisily and everyone turned to him, even the men of the Mountain clans who had remained motionless until this point.

"Connington's promotion is a warning for us. It's like Mad Aerys was acknowledging our rebellion is a real, big threat for him. He's back in the game and he sends us someone who's just as skilled as Robert."

"Connington is dangerous," Umber approved. "And Aerys still saves his best asset."

"Who is?" Karstark asked.

"Prince Rhaegar. If the prince and Connington fight together against Robert, this rebellion will come to an end before we reach the Riverlands."

The men went silent, imagining a possible confrontation between Robert and his worst enemy. _Robert needs me. No matter what he did and what I now think about him, he needs me._

"Get ready to leave at daybreak," Eddard said. "Forced march until we link up with Arryn and Robert."

* * *

**Jon**

The news from Ashford had been oddly comforting in King's Landing. As Jon spent his first days as the new Hand of the King, Mace Tyrell had sent a dozen ravens to the capital, claiming his victory against Robert – before people began to whisper about the young Randyll Tarly's decisive action during the battle. The fact that the wealthy and proud Lord of Highgarden boasted about his triumph against the rebels didn't bother Jon – Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly were just like two peasant boys quarreling to know whoever pissed the farthest – but what he saw in the Stormlands when he arrived and questioned some soldiers dampened his spirits.

Robert's host had not been crushed; he had simply left the western Stormlands to go North and try to link up with his allies. His stronghold of Storm's End was not in the hands of the loyalists: Robert's young brother Stannis resisted with an unexpected stubbornness for a boy of his age. In King's Landing, people clung to the idea everything was getting better since Merryweather's dismissal but they were wide of the mark; you only needed to leave the capital to realize Robert was no minor threat.

Thus, Jon's only chance to prevent Robert from joining the Arryn and Stark forces was to hunt him down as the rebel army headed to the Riverlands. _I have to stop them. As soon I get rid of Robert, I'll go back to King's Landing._ However hard he tried to convince himself, Jon knew he didn't regret King's Landing but only one person who lived in the Red Keep, though his absences were more frequent these days. Prince Rhaegar had once more disappeared the day before he left for the Stormlands. Jon never had a chance to bid him farewell, and since that painful moment when he realized Rhaegar had nearly sneaked out of the Red Keep, he wondered if the prince had done it on purpose. _To torture me? Or did he simply forget because the Stark girl is the only one that matters?_

There was someone else in the capital who felt neglected and sad and lonely. Princess Elia, the very last person he expected to see before leaving the Red Keep, had asked for him and he had dragged his feet to Maegor's Holdfast.

The princess' bedchamber was bathed in a golden-orange light – bright and almost yellow in the morning, amber during the afternoon. It was just after noon and the sun flooded the room with a cheerful light, contrasting with Elia's expression. The delivery would come soon; she was still lying on her huge four-poster bed, hands folded on her rounded belly, as if she didn't move since his last visit to her. An anxious wrinkle crumpled her angel face.

"I wasn't sure you would come," she said shyly after the usual exchange of civilities. She looked like a little girl, lost in the outsize bed and indifferent to the gorgeous ornament of the bedroom. "Please have a seat, my lord."

"I won't stay for a long time," he answered stiffly, standing very straight, in a soldierly attitude.

She granted him with one of her smiles, not the perfect beaming one she generously offered to the noblemen and high-born ladies hanging out in the castle, but a sad, forlorn smile he had never seen.

"I wish we could be good friends, you and I," she went on. "I used to think of me as a lucky person, always getting what I wanted, even before I knew I wanted it... These days it seems that my wishes are just wishes. I wish... I wish my husband were here, but he just walked out, without saying anything."

In the long, tear-filled gaze she gave him, Jon understood she was as desperate as he was._ And she thought Rhaegar was hers. She thought he would never leave her, while I always knew my dreams were hopeless._ The words were stuck in his throat so he simply looked back at her and stepped forward, putting one of his large hands on the post of her bed.

What was this sudden impression? He felt his chest constricting as tears ran down Elia's cheeks: forgetting her goods manners and the lectures about how discreet a lady should be, she began to cry. The sound of her unrestrained sobs filled the room for a while, until the abrupt rise and fall of her chest startled Jon. _What if she faints?_ He didn't know anything about women's health and child-bearing; in some way, it scared him more than the prospect of chasing Robert's host in the Stormlands.

"Your Grace," he said tentatively.

She gasped and, at that point, as she raised a red and wet face to him, her vulnerability struck Jon.

"Prince Rhaegar will be back in time, to see his child," he offered, wondering why he was suddenly so kind with a woman he despised.

"You don't even believe what you say," she retorted, wiping her tears with her pretty hands. Jon hold out his handkerchief for her and she gladly took it.

"I'm sorry, Your Grace, I'm not good at comforting people."

"This is not why I asked you to come," she whispered, laying back against the plump pillows. "We don't really appreciate each other, do we? I'd better be honest with you; I used to think of you as my enemy. However, we have some common interest. We both thought we could change Prince Rhaegar."

Jon sucked in deeply. _How does she dare? I don't want to talk about Rhaegar with her..._

"The realm needs you," she said softly. "You probably believe I should not discuss politics because I am only a silly young woman, but I know King Aerys was right when he chose you. You will do whatever it takes to protect the Seven Kingdoms. Will you do the same for my children?"

He sudden felt as if she backed him to a corner. What was this question about the children? Did she mistake him for some wet nurse? Shifting back and forth on his feet, Jon glared at her.

"If things get worse, will you protect Rhaegar's children?" she begged.

"In your condition, we shouldn't discuss such matters," he answered curtly, but Elia's bright brown eyes met his and he couldn't do anything but looking back at her.

"You always think of me as a naive girl, don't you? 'Let's not tell Princess Elia, she can't handle this.'"

This strange rebuke wasn't only for him: exasperated, she turned to the folding screen and stared at the lacquered wooden panels, repressing another sob, before facing him again.

"It makes me sick every time I realize how people treat me here: a girl only meant to smile and give heirs. A broodmare. My father was kinder towards his mares. I should not think, I should not talk, but I'm scared. I'm so terrified, Jon."

She never used his name and it sounded different when escaping her lips; ill-at ease, he looked at the inlaid wooden floor. The pattern of suns recalled House Martell's sigil and right under his feet, a big sun made of light wood contrasted with dark mahogany. He scowled.

"What do you want from me, Your Grace?" he finally said.

"If things get worse, will you protect us – Princess Rhaenys, the baby and me?"

"We are going to win this war. Can't you have faith in the royal army?"

"I do not care about the royal army. I care about my children."

"Of course, I will protect you. Why in Seven Hells would I-"

"Swear it," she commanded. "You won't leave until you swear."

Her big brown eyes shone with a mix of anger and anxiety when she wiped a tear running down her cheek. Jon was at a loss and silently observed her for a while; he hated tears and emotional outbursts, he despised those who used their weaknesses to win over him. He toyed with the idea of playing for time, but he was not that kind of man and he finally chose to tell the princess he didn't have to swear some stupid oath. Before he could say anything though, she called for one of her ladies-in-waiting.

A door located on the left, barely visible thanks to the wall hanging hiding it, opened suddenly and some Dornish girl Elia brought with her showed up. The girl opened her eyes wide when she saw a man in the bedroom and a disapproving look appeared on her face; it only vanished when the princess told her to let her daughter in.

The servants had decked out Rhaenys in a long silken dress that annoyed her; without ever looking at Jon, she trotted about and stopped in front of her mother.

"Your Grace," Jon said, bowing slightly.

Princess Rhaenys turned around, probably recalling her mother's lessons about politeness.

"Red hair!" she exclaimed with a gleeful smile.

Elia grabbed her daughter's forearm and lectured her in an undertone; in the meantime, she mindlessly stroked her stomach, then the little girl's light brown locks. Jon wanted to leave these apartments filled with trinkets, hushed voices and this sweetish smell typical from a woman's bedroom, but the harm had been done.

"I'll do it," he said abruptly, cutting off Elia's scolding. "I swear I'll protect you and the children. If things get worse, I'll take you out of this place."

When he saw her lips trembling as she nodded gratefully, Jon prayed that the princess wouldn't cry again. After a few heartbeats, she let go of her daughter and granted him a smile. Sat on the inlaid wooden floor and playing with one her mother's bracelets, Rhaenys had forgotten them.

"As Your Grace probably knows, I'm going to the Stormlands, that's why you should talk to Lord Varys. Lord Varys will see to your protection until I get back."

"I already talked to Lord Varys. In fact, he came to me and... this conversation was his idea," she confessed.

Jon gasped. _Bloody eunuch! He played me for a fool. And she used me, she tried to move me to pity._ He left her room with the unpleasant impression of being a puppet in the Spider's hands, but he had given his word all the same.

Now that he was chasing down Robert in the Stormlands, he clenched his teeth whenever he looked back on his promise; Varys had twisted his arm. Regardless of the ravens coming from the capital and bringing news about the finances of the Seven Kingdoms, regardless of his tracking of the rebels, Jon couldn't help thinking of Elia and the little princess who called him 'Red hair'. He thought of how he would help them if Robert managed to join his allies. How he would protect a woman he hated because he had taken a vow.

* * *

Despite the chaos surrounding them – men fighting and yelling everywhere, royalist foot soldiers throwing themselves on rebel knights and arrows coming from both sides and whistling above his head – everything was clear in Jon's head: Robert was panting in front of him and the rebellion stirring the realm since a few months could be over soon.

He couldn't remember when was the last time he had met the eldest son of Steffon Baratheon, but he had significantly changed since then: taller, with broad shoulders enclosed in heavy plate. Indifferent to his equipment's weight, Robert had run to him as soon as he caught a glimpse at Jon's sigil; bellowing and waving his long sword as if he was possessed, he had attacked Jon and made him step back until they hit a steed's corpse. A seething rage had took hold of Jon and he fought back, surprising his young opponent. Behind the visor of his helmet, Robert was getting nervous, not understanding why he couldn't get rid of him as fast as he did with Lord Grafton and Lord Fell. _Killing the leader of his enemies in single combat becomes an habit about Robert. I'll make him fall out of the habit._

Jon's blade stroke on Robert's cuirass; he winced in pain, but barely moved. All around them, the shouting and the loud crash of steel was deafening, however Jon knew exactly what to do. Methodically, he countered Robert's furious and disorganized blows and backed him between a cart full of supplies and the ruins of a mill where the skirmish had begun. When Robert showed signs of tiredness, Jon's blows intensified and he aimed at the joints of his armor. His opponent was bathed in sweat underneath his breastplate but he knew what Jon was doing and bravely attacked once more.

Since a few minutes, Jon was looking at the joint between the cuirass and the gorget, guessing he could easily wound his enemy if he ever stroke there; he risked it all and stabbed Robert near the collarbone. The Lord of Storm's End collapsed and he thought for a heartbeat it was over, before noticing the rebel knights running to him and to their leader. Springing up from nowhere, they pushed him and hauled a wounded Robert on the cart; while half of the knights hurried on the gentle slopes of the hill, the rest of them prevented Jon and his men to follow the cart. Jon and his companions fought back, cut some of the rebels to pieces, but the fools seemed glad to give their lives for Robert and to protect his retreat. Jon commanded his troops to chase down the cart, but the rebel host was already reorganized, some seasoned knights gone with Robert and most of his army holding back the royalists and preventing them to leave the hill.

Dozens of men died that day, protecting Robert's retreat: they knew what was at stake. Without Robert, the rebellion would vanished instantly. For now, Jon ruled over the ruins of a mill covered with corpses, forgotten weapons and an awful smell. At the end of the day, even if he had prisoners, even if he had crushed a part of Robert's forces, he felt the bitter taste of defeat.

* * *

A scout had spotted the Baratheon host in the outskirts of Stoney Sept, in the Riverlands, and as soon as Jon got the information, the soldiers had made a forced march through the night. Heading North, to join Arryn and maybe Stark. _If he meet them, I don't have enough forces to outweigh them. And the Tullys. The eldest daughter was betrothed to Brandon Stark; her father could join the rebellion or at least allow Baratheon to cross his lands without doing anything..._

Despite the weariness and the amount of wounded men, the royal army progressed silently in the hummocky landscape as the Stormlands gave way to the Riverlands; Jon feared another skirmish or a sudden attack led by Robert's rearguard, some vicious maneuver planned by the rebels, but nothing came. Everything was quiet as they made their way to the small town, and the chilly wind of the night only brought more pain for those who had been injured and a certain discomfort for the rest of them, including himself.

Being the Head of the King didn't spare Jon the hardships his soldiers suffered; he rode his horse as if he led a dozen men, not as the dignitary he had become overnight. He was with the vanguard, because Aerys expected no less from him. Neither the lack of sleep nor the tiredness in his bones would prevent him from doing his duty towards the crown. _And he will acknowledge my value; I'll bring Robert's head to his father and I'll say nothing. I'll just look at his face and he will know I killed Robert for him._

The ground became hilly as they approached Stoney Sept. The moon retreated slowly and red hues appeared on the east, revealing the first wooden houses of the town. At the top of the hill, high walls surrounded Stoney Sept like the hands of a man around the waist of his bride and below, on the steep slopes furrowed by the rainy spring, hovels and thatched houses were visible in the first rays of light.

Men, women and children asleep in their tiny houses, unaware of the danger coming for them, unaware of the struggle between a bunch of rebel lords and the king. Another scout, a beanpole born in fishing village of the Stormlands, came back and dismounted in front of him.

"He's inside, my lord. Don't know how Robert got inside, whether the inhabitants let him or not, but he's inside. What shall we do?"

As the breathless man stared at him, Jon reflected intensely. He thought of only one option: sneak in and find Robert._ Kill him in single combat like he did with my predecessors._ Jon rubbed the sleep of his eyes and looked at the granite walls at the top of the hill. _People won't remember me as the butcher of Stoney Sept._

* * *

**Sandor**

Ignoring the curious eyes of the kitchen maids, Sandor came in and rued the bright sun that made the kitchens so dark in comparison; after a few heartbeats, his eyes got accustomed to the dim light, he found the place where the wood was stored, on the left of the big hearth, and put the heavy logs on the ground.

The girls were whispering when he turned around to seek Fat Jeyne's eyes. None of them could carry as many logs as him and the two boys working in the kitchens boasted themselves but couldn't either. It didn't prevent the boys from blowing their own trumpet in front of the maids, but Sandor shrugged at that thought. He didn't care for girls: he only wanted to help Fat Jeyne.

_Not to help her, not exactly; do her a favor because she gave me some food. And there will be more favors because she intends to feed me for a while._ Being beholden to someone, even to Fat Jeyne, made him sick._ I'll fight for Tywin Lannister because he welcomed me in his castle. And I'll carry those damn logs because Fat Jeyne didn't let me starve when I left the dungeon._

"What can I do, now?" he asked Fat Jeyne who considered the pile of logs with a smug smile.

She hesitated, visibly surprised he didn't walked out already, and turned her round greasy face to him.

"Well, the young lady asked for green peas and she likes green peas with onions and carrots so you can lend us a hand. Have a seat."

He sat on the bench across the whispering maids, who elbowed each other while podding peas. Fat Jeyne put a dozen carrots and a blunted knife in front of him then grinned.

"Cut them to pieces, Sandor. Here's your sword," she mocked.

Sandor had thought of some task requiring strength rather than meticulousness, something more masculine; he nevertheless complied. He didn't like the whispering girls, nor the mix of dirt and juice sticking to his palms once he had peeled the carrots, but there was something soothing in the atmosphere of the kitchens; while he usually felt like he didn't belong to Casterly Rock, this sensation disappeared in a few seconds when he passed the threshold. _Just like the impression of being blinded when I come in: I step in, my eyes get used to the half-light and suddenly I can see every greasy stain of the kitchens._ The smell of hot bread elicited a smile at the corners of his lips.

Skirts rustling on the tiles of the corridor made the kitchen maids stiffen suddenly and Sandor's gaze settled on the door frame as Fat Jeyne gave out a heavy sigh. A tall and slim blond girl stepped in and he knew instantly who she was._ Cersei Lannister. Tywin's daughter. The one King Aerys rejected for his son. The girl for whom I'm peeling carrots._ Sandor didn't know anything about women's attire and would have been unable to describe how she was dressed or how her golden hair was done, but she did look beautiful and elegant. _The most beautiful girl in the Westernlands, mayhaps in the realm, they say. Well, it's true. But nobody told me she looked so fierce._

Cersei Lannister stepped forward, her haughty gaze flying from the trembling maids to the long wooden table covered with vegetables, jugs and dishes, then to Fat Jeyne and himself. They all stood up very straight, waiting for an invitation to sit down again that would never came. She let her green eyes linger on them for a few heartbeats, taking perverse pleasure in the girls submissive look.

"I will have cabbages for my supper. Boiled," she said, without greeting them first.

"The girls just picked the green peas in your lord father's garden, my lady. They're as fresh as can be. I thought green peas were your favorite-"

"You thought? You don't work in the kitchens to think or to plan anything, old woman. I'll have cabbages because it's good for my skin. And oysters, for the taste."

"Summer is not a good season for oysters," Fat Jeyne replied.

"Surprise me, then," she answered coldly.

They all thought Cersei was about to walk away and the kitchen maids were almost sighing with relief, when Tywin's daughter pointed at him.

"You. I saw you in the yard, fighting with Serret and Peckledon. Defeating them."

Her remark made Sandor feeling ridiculously proud, not because the compliment came from a beautiful girl – he was too low-born for her and she was old, really old, probably seven-and-ten – but because she was his liege lord's daughter. _She can talk to her father about me. And if a girl who only cares for her skin or for her power over kitchen maids acknowledges my skills, I'm better than I thought._

He looked at her straight in the eye and nodded curtly.

"My lady."

She smirked and, in her handsome face, there was suddenly something devilish.

"What an ugly face! Sheltering crippled boys doesn't look like my father. Is this the way you won over the squires, showing them your dreadful face?"

He was shaking with rage but held on the edge of the table, while the youngest of the kitchen maids, a girl of ten, frantically shook her head as if she was telling him not to react to Cersei's provocation.

"Still making fun of everyone," Fat Jeyne growled. "Was your day that bad, my lady?"

Cersei's green eyes opened wide; she didn't find anything to reply and frustration made her chest raise slowly up and down, just like she lacked air. Spinning on her heels, Tywin's daughter finally walked away. As soon as the sound of her offended footsteps faded outside, the youngest kitchen maid leaned over the table to talk to him, not understanding he only wanted to be left alone.

"Lady Cersei is always like this," she explained, shaking her long and thin black braid. "Today, it was just your turn. She uses to call me 'Rat tail'. Because of my braid."

He didn't give a damn about how Cersei nicknamed her and looked back at the little girl angrily.

"What's your name?" he asked her.

"Willa, from Pansy Mill."

"Get back to your peas, Willa from Pansy Mill," he told her in a threatening voice, making her and her companions shudder. "Unless you want me to crush your face like I did with Peckledon."

"Come here, Sandor," Fat Jeyne grunted. Once Cersei was gone, she had waddled to the larder in order to pick what kind of meat the Lannister family would eat for supper; something in her tone suggested she had heard his answer to Willa. He pushed himself from the bench and walked to the larder.

"Don't ever talk to my girls like you just did," Fat Jeyne whispered, pointing a pudgy finger at him. "Willa was just trying to help. Now go tell her you're sorry."

Sandor didn't understand how she did it, but the old cook always managed to make him do what she wanted even if he disagreed: he dragged his feet to the long table, looked at the girls who were as scared of him as they feared Cersei's wrath and planted himself in front of Willa's tiny figure.

"I'm sorry," he said flatly.

_I don't really mean it_, he mused. Behind him, in the larder, Fat Jeyne cleared her throat noisily.

"Won't talk to you like that again. Don't push me, though," he added.

He sat down, grabbed his knife and lowered his gaze on the carrots, determined to avoid the kitchen maid's eyes. When he was almost done and when his blood stopped running wildly in his veins, the smell of hot bread tickled his nostrils again; his reward would come soon. _Unless Fat Jeyne didn't like my apologies, but I would already know._ Someone suddenly slammed the door open, startling the poor girls again, and Kevan Lannister appeared on the threshold. Instead of the boiled leather he usually wore during the afternoon, when he attended the squires training, he had done a fresh doublet.

"What in Seven Hells are you doing in the kitchens?" he barked at Sandor.

"He's skilled with a blade, Ser," Fat Jeyne retorted in a playful tone. "Besides, I heard Lord Tywin wants him to become a hefty young warrior. I would have given him something nourishing for the care given."

Kevan glared at her and motioned him to the door.

"Quick, boy. A squire's place is not in the kitchens, with women," Kevan hissed.

"I'll save some bread for you, Sandor," Fat Jeyne promised, like a provocation to her lord's brother.

Kevan silently hurried himself to the part of the keep where they lived, taking two steps at a time and striding along the corridors, but never looking at his squire.

"Dress properly," he commanded Sandor when they reached the room he shared with Tybolt. "Your brother pays us a visit."

* * *

_You can do this. You defeated two older squires, and one of them was almost a knight. You beat them when they attacked you at night. You spent five days in the dungeon for nothing and you didn't complain. You lived for a week in the woods, on the run, starving, still you managed to climb and reach the gates of Casterly Rock. You escaped him. You survived. You survived them all._

He should have been proud and invigorated when thinking of the last weeks, so why did he feel so weak and frightened? _Terrified, rather. I'm no craven, but I'm terrified._ The prospect of meeting Gregor again, here, in the Golden Gallery of Casterly Rock, sent shivers down his spine and sickened him. When he thought of his older brother, he saw blood puddles on the dirt and on the reddish tiles, recalled the stench – a mix of sweat, mud, blood and gods-know-what. He couldn't remember the screaming, though, neither his father's nor the young servant's a few months before._ How long did she stay with us? Three, maybe four months. Her name was Ivy and she laughed at me, calling me her savior. I tried to protect her, I swear, but I couldn't do anything the day he came for her._

As he tried to wipe away the servant's face lingering in his memory, anxiety took hold of him at the thought of what Gregor could do to the keep's inhabitants. He suddenly felt more scared for the stupid girls who worked in the kitchens than for himself. I should have warned them. Warned Fat Jeyne to be careful. He even felt worried about the nosy little girl who had tried to comfort him. The only women for whom he wasn't anxious were Cersei and the stupid woman Kevan Lannister called his wife; Gregor was not clever, but he was smart enough to choose his preys.

Kevan looked back at him and frowned, not understanding why Sandor hesitated before crossing the threshold of the Golden Gallery, so he came in on quavering legs. Tywin was already there, casually sat on a cross-framed folding seat whose back and armrests were of gilded leather, his brother Gerion by his side, facing their guest's massive figure.

The Golden Gallery took copper tones in the afternoon; large windows provided a generous light sent back by the brocade curtains, the polished wooden floor and the gilded furniture displayed in the room. Everything was golden inside, except the red sigil of House Lannister visible on a huge banner at the end of the gallery. It boasted several golden candelabras, so uncommonly large and wide they were taller than the servants who saw to furbish them, but that day the candelabras seemed small and frail, compared to the man planted in front of Tywin; Tywin Lannister himself looked stunted on his armchair.

As he walked in and left behind him the heavy doors adorned with bronze and copper, Gregor had his back to him and wasn't aware of his presence; Sandor noticed the hulking form, his legs like columns, his arms strong enough to crush anyone. His brother looked gawky in the fresh clothes he had done to meet his overlord, yet determined; he stared Tywin down, without understanding it was a mistake. For a while, this realization distracted him from his queasiness, until Gregor turned to him. Sandor's heart skipped a beat and Gerion must have sensed his uneasiness, for he left his brother's side to stand beside the boy.

"Brother," Gregor flatly said, narrowing his eyes, "you look in good shape."

His honeyed words didn't hide his devious smile, though, and he made few efforts to conceal his true feelings; dissimulation was never familiar to him. In the meanwhile, images churned around in Sandor's head: the woods, his father's last hunt, the servant. _Her name was Ivy, she was my friend and you destroyed her. When you were done with her, I knew we couldn't give her back to her family, not like this, so I asked one of the peasants to help me bury her. Hiring her was a mistake, Father should have known, but it doesn't change anything. She was good to me and you slaughtered her. You made me clean your mess._

"Seven Hells, boy! Say something to your brother," Kevan commanded him, exasperated by his silence.

Sandor looked back at the new owner of Clegane's Keep and mumbled something inaudible. For a few heartbeats the room remained silent, only filled with the growing tension between the two siblings.

"I just asked Lord Tywin if you could come back to Clegane's Keep," Gregor finally said.

_No. Please don't. I didn't do what I did to be sent away like this._ He swallowed hard and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, soon slipping down his temples. Though he kept staring at his brother, he saw Gerion leaning toward him in his peripheral vision.

"Don't worry," he whispered to Sandor, but what followed was directed at Gregor. "Do you think we can't take care of young people like him? We've got plenty of pages and squires here!"

Gregor tried to apologize and began to justify himself. He never meant this, never ever thought something like this; his confused explanations elicited a half smile on Tywin's lips. The lord of Casterly Rock didn't utter a single word since Sandor's arrival, observing everyone, especially the Clegane brothers, as if this meeting was a game with sophisticated rules he was the only one to know and the people in front of him pawns he could play with. He slowly shifted on his seat, elbows rooted to the arm rests and looked at them over steepled fingers.

"Why not discuss these matters during a hunting game?" he suggested. "Tomorrow morning. The five of us."

"I love hunting," Gregor replied, and he turned slightly to his brother.

A seething rage took hold of Sandor, but before he could do anything stupid, Gerion placed a heavy hand on his right shoulder.

"Don't."

Sandor only thought about throwing himself on his brother, though he knew he wouldn't have the upper hand, when Tywin sent away everyone. His anger focused on his liege lord, who knew what had happened to his father the last time he led his hounds in the woods surrounding Clegane's Keep. Tywin didn't know what kind of game Gregor intended to play with his brother after he ran away from home and hid in the forest, but that, the death of his father, he couldn't ignore it. Sandor could only read this hunting game as a provocation directed at him and felt betrayed. As they all retreated from the gallery, he was more bitter than ever, following obediently Kevan who courteously talked to Gregor.

"Stay here, boy," Tywin called.

As far as he knew, he was the only boy exiting the gallery, so he stopped and spun on his heels.

"Shall I close the door?" he asked coldly to the man still sat on his leather gilded armchair.

Tywin didn't reply instantly, waiting for his brothers and Gregor to walk away.

"Don't ever look at me like you did, boy. I know what I'm doing."

His tone was curt and peremptory; Sandor nonetheless granted him with a dark stare.

_No, you don't know anything._

/

His father always told him hunting games in Casterly Rock looked like expeditions, with dozens of dogs and an army of men driving deers and boars towards Tywin Lannister and his guests. _Father would have been disappointed._ They were only ten: the Lannister siblings, Gregor, himself and five beaters, wandering in the woods. The area located on the east of Casterly Rock abounded in stags, deers and hares, Kevan had said, as if four-legged game still captivated Gregor.

Sandor had barely slept the night before; when Kevan had dismissed him, he had visited Fat Jeyne – to warn her, but she already seemed to know and she had tried in vain to make him talk to her – then he had shut himself in his room refusing to come down for supper. He had to think about what he would do, that night and the day after. When he understood he wouldn't sleep, at least not in this room where Gregor could easily find him and finish what he had begun, he sneaked out, stole a sword in the armory and finally took refuge in the stables. Gregor wouldn't look for him there and the presence of so many horses – stallions, mares and draft horses – was comforting enough; short after the middle of the night, he fell asleep and only woke up when an astonished stable boy found him lying on the straw.

Kevan had spent his entire morning chiding him – because he was late, because he smelt of the stables, because the hares had deserted this part of the woods. At noon, Tywin decided they should part; Kevan and Gregor, who were talented hunters, would go with the three more seasoned beaters while himself would stay with Gerion and Sandor.

"We'll talk about your brother later," he told Gregor, "on our way back to the castle."

Tywin was already getting tired of the hunt, Sandor noticed. Because it's not for real. War is the only thing he really cares for. War and ruling the Westernlands.

As soon as Gregor and Kevan began to canter through the woods, their beaters running desperately to follow them, Tywin contemplated the slender tree trunks, the changing green of the leaves when rays of light played through the foliage.

"Joanna loved this season," Gerion observed, guessing what was in his brother's mind.

Tywin nodded, his gloved hands pulling the reins. Progressing slowly, they started to talk about Lady Joanna, to recall ancient memories, half forgetting about the squire they had taken with them; the remaining beaters themselves seemed lost in the thick woods. Sandor realized it was his only chance and put some distance between him and the Lannister brothers first; then, when he was sure they didn't even remember his presence, he spurred on his horse and hurried himself to the pond where Kevan had said he wanted to go.

The woods were silent around the marshy area of the pond; no trees had taken root in the damp soil, so that he could clearly look around and his brother wasn't there. He had not really decided what he would do; it was more an impulse than a conscious resolution. He couldn't put up with the idea of letting Gregor breathe and walk freely after what he had done. _And since Tywin doesn't give a damn... he probably wants to get rid of me, too, or else he would have told Gregor to fuck off._ If he was ever alone with him, Gregor wouldn't let him escape like he had done in Clegane's Keep. He won't make the same mistake and think I'm too sad or too weak to run away. And I'm the last one, the only one able to resist him, so he'll take his time with me.

He was riding around the pond when he spotted Gregor, a hundred yards away, shouting at a beater; he let his horse feel his spurs, once again, and grabbed the handle of the dagger the master-at-arms allowed him to take for the hunt. As the distance narrowed between Gregor and him, different images churned in his head – Ivy's grave, in the orchard, under the apple tree; his father's corpse, lying across the saddle of his own horse, tied like a dead stag at the end of the hunt. He was only thirty feet away from his brother when Gregor turned to him, saw him alone and immediately understood what he planned to do, if the perverse smile distorting his lips was any indication. Someone was galloping behind him though, someone who had escaped the half-light of the woods only to dive on him; Sandor was aware of his presence, yet didn't stop, hoping the intruder would arrive too late. He was wrong.

His horse reared up when Gerion appeared on his left and made him stop suddenly.

"What did you had in mind?" a breathless Gerion bellowed, seizing the reins of Sandor's mount.

He didn't answer but stared at his brother, then glanced from time to time at his massive figure once Gerion forced him to turn around and go back to the woods. When he finally stopped looking at Gregor, he heard a disturbing laughter behind him.

* * *

The stag was a beautiful beast; Tywin nonetheless found it was too young to die and Gregor mumbled something about a biggest animal the beaters had let escape. They were drinking out of their wine skins, around the dead stag, ready to go back to the castle.

"I'd like to take the antlers as a present for my wife," Kevan said thoughtfully.

"A present for your wife?" Tywin exclaimed. "The laws of hospitality tell us to let our guest decide about that. What do you think, Ser Gregor?"

"I would say Ser Kevan can take the antlers and the rest if I can have my brother back," Gregor replied with a fake playfulness.

"What a strange bargain!" Tywin put away his wineskin and Sandor read it as the beginning of the more serious discussion. _Please, tell him to fuck off._

"Well, it seems to me that a young knight now in charge of a keep and good lands such as yours is quite busy. How will you find the time to take care of this... rather unruly boy?"

"That's what I thought," Gregor sighed, shaking his head. "Always getting in trouble. I hope you chastised him well enough, my lord."

"We saw to it."

"Let me take him back to Clegane's keep, my lord, and he won't bother you again. My little brother can be such a nuisance sometimes."

"Am I already drunk," Gerion jested, "or did you forget to answer my brother's question? I don't understand how you will take care of this boy with all your... activities."

Gregor took a gulp of wine, pondering his answer.

"He belongs to Clegane's Keep," he finally said. "Besides, what will you do with him? Look at him, his voice didn't even break!"

_Tell him to fuck off. Please don't send me away._ Tywin tilted his head.

"As a matter of fact, he can be useful. He already proved his skills, with a sword and wooden shield. It would have been perfect if he had not ruined this squire's face, but... your brother is gifted."

"Do you know what our father Tytos would have said?" Gerion added. "Never underestimate a Clegane. I'm sure you agree with that."

Gregor couldn't do anything, except showing his acquiescence and gratefulness.

"So we agree on this; your brother will stay here with us so that you have plenty of time to take care of the lands my father gave to your family. Oh, and you can have the antlers, by the way."

Tywin walked away and one of the beaters instantly brought him his horse, as Gregor, white with rage, stared at the antlers. _Tywin's way to tell him 'Fuck off'_, Sandor mused.

* * *

**Thank you for reading. Any encouragement will be appreciated!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**Jon**

He desperately waited for a message. Two ravens came, but none of them brought him the words he was longing for.

A man who had crossed the Narrow Sea and visited the Free Cities had told him once the fighting pits of Meeren were covered with a velum protecting the audience from the pitiless sun when festivities lasted all day long; an army of slaves unfurled huge sails to shelter both viewers and fighters. That day, the sky above Stoney Sept mimicked a velum, with heavy clouds that seemed to get closer from the ground and took golden hues as they filtered the sun rays. The arena where he was supposed to fight was up there, enclosed in the grey walls, and Jon still didn't know what to do.

_Do the fighters hesitate like this before coming in and hearing the crowd shouting for them or for their opponent?_

His squire brought him the first message at dawn, right after they had stopped at the foot of the hill. Jon immediately recognized Vary's sloping handwriting.

_"Prince Rhaegar said it was time to ask for Tywin Lannister's help; the king was reluctant, but finally accepted. I am not optimistic though, and fear what the Lannisters may demand in return._

_About what we already discussed, I try to prepare the king's mind so that he allows Princess Elia to go back to Dorne where she would be safer. Despite my efforts, he doesn't want to let her go."_

Jon sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, then lowered his gaze to the Spider's message. Even leagues away, Varys seemed able to read Jon's mind.

_"Prince Rhaegar disappeared from the Red Keep and, as none of my little birds saw him take the roads leading to Dorne, I doubt if he is in the South or on his way to meet you. The king was so furious when he heard the prince was gone, I lean towards the second hypothesis..."_

Jon's heart began to beat wildly. If Rhaegar came, everything would be different and he was sure to win, because the royal army worshiped the prince and so did the smallfolk. No matter what Robert had said or done to them, the inhabitants of this town would forget the rebel as soon as Rhaegar would show up. Yet, the prospect of Rhaegar involved in this battle worried Jon, not only because he would have more pressure fighting at his side, but above all because he didn't want his prince to take any risk. Robert would find him and challenge him, for sure. Rhaegar would never accept to stay away from the battle.

That was disturbing enough to prevent him from deciding quickly what kind of attack he would lead in Stoney Sept. The sun was already high in the sky when he ordered his men to surround the city and stay in front of the different gates. He led a part of his forces to the main gate.

There was a skirmish at the main gate, between his men and some stupid young men of the town who wouldn't let them in; when two of them died under one of the knights sword, the huge doors slowly turned on their hinges and they were able to enter Stoney Sept. Jon ordered to open the other gates, just long enough to allow the royal army to come in; then, they closed the gates and a couple of his men guarded them. The creaking noise the main gate made behind him – a lingering, threatening sound – should have warned him he wouldn't leave this town with the glory he sought, that many men would die there before the doors opened again.

Jon headed to the market of Stoney Sept and gathered the inhabitants – not all of them, but the main part was there, under the blank stare of the giant leaping trout in the fountain – to speak to them. He wanted Robert Baratheon now and he wanted their full cooperation.

"And what if we don't give Robert to you, my lord?" a man in his forties dared to ask.

"We'll search for him in every house of your town, and my men won't have the patience I show you right now. As we are courteously talking, some of them are already in the sewers to look for the rebel lord of Storm's End. He's nothing to you, so you'd better hand him over to me, before your bloody town looks like a battlefield."

The crowd remained perfectly silent and, in the eyes of the inhabitants, Jon saw a hint of resistance that struck him; they didn't mean to give him Robert, even wounded, even forgotten by his men. He couldn't decide if the Baratheon host had left his leader to the care of the smallfolk and hid outside of the town to attack them at night, or if underneath the common clothes of the men who listened to him there were knights of the Stormlands and foot soldiers who would give their life to Robert; the truth was probably in between.

"Seize this man," he commanded, "the one who asked a question."

The man's face went crimson and two women standing behind him – probably his wife and his daughter – began to scream and to beg.

"Do we have crow cages?" Jon asked.

"Indeed, my lord," a young knight answered on his right.

"Bring the crow cages then, and lock him inside. Neither food nor water for him until someone give us information about Robert."

The wife and daughter went on sobbing and this annoying sound made Jon wonder if this man would be his only hostage or if there would be more crow cages, hanging from the trees, swaying in the air.

A few minutes later, one of the knights of the Stormlands still faithful to the crown ran to him, holding a dead raven in his hands.

"Someone tried to send this bird from a tower, my lord; I ordered the archers to feather it, then we did our best to find the damn crow. Thought you would like to read the message."

Jon congratulated him and eagerly took the scroll tied to the raven's foot.

_"Lord Robert is wounded and hides himself in Stoney Sept, with some of us. Connington just entered the town. We need your help and Lord Arryn's as well..."_

Ser Farring signed the message._ They're in, of course. They hide under commoners clothes and wait for their allies to come._ He read again the last sentence and clenched his teeth.

"This message was for Eddard Stark, obviously," he told the knight. "Where is the raven addressed to Lord Arryn?"

The knight shook his head in dismay.

"The archers only saw one bird taking flight from the tower. When my men came in and searched, they couldn't find anyone, nor new messages, nor ravens."

_While I was gathering people on the market square, all my men were busy; any rebel could have sent a raven before we notice it._

"We killed several ravens since dawn, though," the knight added, "when we were waiting outside of the gates."

_When I was waiting for Rhaegar to come. But he won't._ Now Jon was sure about it.

* * *

The search began after he sent scouts outside of Stoney Sept, while foot soldiers were on patrol on the walls of the town. Each group of the remaining men had a specific task: some had volunteered to stay in the sewers, in case Robert would choose the most filthy exit; others went house to house, smashed the doors, looked in every damn corner and, when it was done, marked the building with some red paint they had found in a merchant's storehouse.

Thus, the number of houses bearing the mark of infamy rose dramatically before the end of the day; crow cages were soon filled with men and even women who had resisted Jon's knights. They swayed in the dusk light, strange birds locked in their cages, mute and stubborn, stoically looking down on their gaolers, keeping their darkest stare for him.

At sunset, Robert was nowhere to be found, everyone was exhausted and a long night full of threats awaited them. His squire begged him to take some rest, even for an hour or two, but Jon wouldn't listen. He gave more orders to allow some of his men to sleep while the others patrolled the rebel town and he kept scrutinizing an old map of the city, pointing at the areas his men had already searched.

_This town is a nest of traitors; each and every one of them, from the old men to the little children took Robert's side and they take pride in their sufferings because they protect him. They're probably moving him from one place to the other._

He told his men to stop every cart they saw, guessing a wounded Robert would be transported on a cart, like a pile of logs. The inhabitants had already shut themselves in their houses, doing their best with the broken doors and a large part of his men spent the night waiting for suspicious carts in the streets of Stoney Sept. _In vain._

* * *

The second day they spent in Stoney Sept, the search went on. _This is a mummer's farce._ All the houses had been visited by his men, and the inhabitants had done their best to fix what remained of their front doors. The gables of the big proud houses of the merchants looked like the hovels facades: the doors were smashed and repaired with mismatched planks and every building, old or new, built with fine granite or made of wattle and daub, bore the same crimson mark.

The knights began their search at dawn, shouting louder than the day before. Walking through the streets to pay a visit to his men crawling in the sewers, Jon saw one of their groups in front of a tavern, trying to force the door open.

"You'd better open this fucking door and cooperate!" the knight leading his men roared. "I'm loosing patience!"

_We all are_, Jon thought bitterly. One of the oldest knights had reported to him that merchants and inn-keepers protested about their goods; with the doors smashed, their belongings weren't safe anymore. Some talked about thieves; they were ready to accuse his men of stealing goods during the search.

His squire ran into him before he could reach the hole where half a dozen men had slipped into the sewers. He held a message in his hands. _Varys, again._

_"Princess Elia gave birth to a son, a few hours ago. The maesters say she will not have another child. Prince Rhaegar didn't come back and I am now sure he is in Dorne._

_We are waiting for Tywin Lannister's good will and pray for your success in the Riverlands. Don't waste time, though: the other rebel hosts are close, now..."_

Mindlessly, he crumpled the scroll and made a tiny ball of it; this childish gesture didn't soothe his nerves, though. He was exhausted, alone, and the premonition of a disaster darkened his mind like the heavy clouds banking up in the sky of the Riverlands. A saturnine laugh escaped his lips as he realized Elia felt exactly the same: they both had made their duty, only relying on themselves since Rhaegar was far away, but weariness overwhelmed them and they knew some terrible fate awaited them._ Except that Elia already lost Rhaegar: what can happen to her now?_

A strange atmosphere now filled the streets of Stoney Sept at the end of the day; with Robert still missing despite the broken doors, with the hostages in the crow cages bravely enduring the lack of food and water, the royal army seemed defeated. Neither looting, nor rape, nor murder had been reported in the city, but as the sun retreated from the sky, they looked more and more like a bunch of outlaws, scaring the inhabitants to get what they wanted.

When he heard some knight bellowing _'Where is he? Where is he?'_, Jon wondered if he was talking about Robert or about a pile of money hidden in the darkest corner of a basement. Regardless of his men's irreproachable behavior, the townsfolk glared at them and now showed his hostility. Somehow, they had already lost in the eyes of the inhabitants, because Robert had forced them to act like thieves and criminals; this small victory against the royal army galvanized the people of Stoney Sept. The second night came and brought with her neither good news nor sleep.

* * *

_Besieged. Besieging Stoney Sept but besieged by Arryn and Stark and some of the troops led by Robert who couldn't hide themselves in the city._

When a scout had reported the news, he had felt almost relieved: the disaster he had waited for was there, almost tangible. And he needed to fight, like his men, rather than smashing doors and scaring old women.

Jon reorganized his forces quickly, surprising his soldiers and giving them a flash of pride. _At least, they appreciate my efforts._ A third of the troops, including himself, remained in the city, to search the houses, while the rest of his men dedicated themselves to the impending battle with the besiegers. He gave the command to a Dornishman, Lord Yronwood, and prayed for reinforcements, even if he knew Aerys wouldn't send more troops to augment the numbers.

The never-ending wait was over and he took the command of half-a-dozen men looking for Robert in the area of the market square. There, the buildings were so close from each other, the balcony of one house almost touching the window of the tavern across the street, Jon thought it was the best place to hide someone and moved him from time to time. _Robert must be here. If I was a fucking coward hiding myself behind civilians, I would choose these streets._

The blood rushed to his face, and he flexed the fingers of his sword hand with anticipation. _We're besieged and my men are tired of the previous fights, whereas Arryn and Stark bring with them fresh troops. All this is true, but if I can kill Robert, the outcome of the battle going on behind the walls doesn't matter._

The first building of the street was a shop held by a cobbler, already visited twice by his men; they only had to push the door this time, and they looked in every corner while the cobbler gathered his four children around him.

"The next houses?" he asked Ser Allyrion, a dornish knight afflicted with a severe squinting.

"Two taverns, a building sheltering several families, one brothel, my lord."

"Let's go on!"

The two taverns had nothing to offer except the furious glare of their respective owners – the customers had deserted when the second search had begun. Jon led his men in the building shared by several families when an archer stopped him.

"Seven fucking Hells!" he shouted, "Robert is here!"

Jon turned his head quickly enough to see Robert Baratheon leaving the brothel, glancing at them and finally running in the opposite direction. There was another man with him, but before Jon could process what was happening, they all hurried themselves behind the runaways.

"Robert is mine!" he shouted to his men.

His order was useless: he commanded them, he was the Hand of the King and they all agreed to give him the right of killing Robert. They were running on the cobbled and slippery streets of the old town when a deafening noise made him realize where they arrived and what was happening.

"What is it?" Ser Allyrion shouted, squinting more than ever, "is it a fucking knell?"

A big house with a fancy tower hid its massive form from their eyes, but Jon knew exactly where Robert had led them. _The Sept. And there's no knell today, no funeral: it's the only way to warn Robert's men to leave their hiding-places and to attack us._

As soon as he arrived in the square in front of the Sept, he noticed men coming from all directions, dressed in common clothes and taking their weapons from under their cloak. _We're outnumbered_, he realized, looking around, _we are outnumbered and Robert is standing on the stairs_. The bells still rang loudly, and it sounded like thunderclaps echoing and following one another.

Somehow, the stairs of the Sept mimicked those leading to the Iron Throne in the Red Keep, except Robert waited for him instead of Aerys. A few days ago, he had not chosen to climb the stairs to become the new Hand of the King, but refusal had not been an option. That day, he didn't ask himself if he wanted to climb those stairs and face Robert: everything seemed obvious. He winced in pain at the sound of the bells, unsheathed his longsword, while the archer collapsed on the cobblestones, wounded by a rebel. Robert's men seemed to ignore him and focused on the soldiers still faithful to the crown, as if their leader had warned them the Hand of the King was his.

The sight of Jon beginning his ascent of the stairs, sword in hand, elicited a smug smile on Robert's lips. Jon didn't know how that was possible, but the man he had wounded by the mill had recovered and seemed as dangerous as before, clad in his heavy plate, holding firmly his longsword and waiting for him as the bells still rang furiously.

_Rhaegar_, he thought.

* * *

**Eddard**

_Did Brandon love this place?_ It was he could think about, when he arrived in Riverrun, and saw the noble siege of House Tully, the rivers, the glorious landscape. Eddard remembered his brother came there once to meet his future bride, Lady Catelyn, after his father had arranged an alliance between the family ruling the Riverlands and the one commanding the North. _A magnificent wedding; everybody said they perfectly matched each other._

The next Stark visiting Riverrun brought news about battles rather than weddings; Lord Hoster Tully's host was necessary to win the war, if Robert managed to escape the trap where he was, according to the last raven one of his men sent them.

_"Lord Robert is wounded and stuck in Stoney Sept: we need your help to besiege Lord Connington's forces..."_

That was why, after another meeting with Karstark, Manderly, Umber and Howland, they had all persuaded him to let them march South while he negotiated with Lord Hoster Tully; Arryn had been sending messages to the lord of Riverrun for weeks, now, but someone needed to put an end to the discussion and make sure he would give them reinforcements. Ned had protested, telling them he didn't want people to take him for a coward, because he wasn't on the battlefield.

"You think it's easy to negotiate with someone like Hoster Tully?" Manderly had asked, laughing at his own remark.

"Lord Arryn led the negotiation, he knows how to negotiate with him," Ned had retorted. "I don't. What can I offer him?"

At that point of their discussion, Umber had turned to Manderly and they had exchanged a sly look before laughing again.

"No offense, Ned, but you're such a fool sometimes," Umber had sighed. "You're a boy. And Lord Hoster has two daughters."

That said, Umber had burst out laughing, and had patted his shoulder, while Eddard had blushed like a maiden.

And now that he was in the Great Hall of Riverrun with a dozen Northerners escorting him, he felt clumsy and stupid. _Because the Tully girls saw Brandon and I'm going to disappoint them. Because now I understand why Benjen didn't want to grow up and preferred to run away and take the black._ He heard a rustle of skirts coming from the closest room. _I don't want to grow up._ No girl showed up, though; instead of the beautiful lady he imagined looking down on him, he only saw Lord Hoster Tully at the end of the Great Hall, nodding courteously and walking towards him.

After the usual exchange of civilities, the lord of Riverrun led him to his solar, where the view over the valley was intoxicating. The glistening meanders of the river contrasted with the dense woods nearby; different shades of green, from a dark emerald to a light yellow green color, proved how rich were the forests of the Riverlands. _I couldn't work in this room_, he mused, _I'll spend my time watching through the windows._ In comparison with the landscape, the furniture seemed almost poor.

Lord Hoster gestured and he took a seat, while his host sat at the other end of the long table, and the bargain began.

* * *

Eddard was not used to this; nothing, in the education he had received had prepared him to discuss over offers and to lead the negotiator where he wanted. _It could be worse; Lord Hoster could have told me to go away but he didn't._ Instead of telling him he didn't give a damn about the rebellion, Lord Hoster talked about numbers.

"One thousand horsemen. And one thousand archers, that's all I can do," he told Eddard, toying with a quill.

"We need more, my lord. As I already explained, we shall not underestimate Lord Connington. What about Lord Frey? I'm sure he has troops."

Hoster Tully rolled his eyes and Ned immediately understood he was not pretending.

"Trust me, young man, with a Bannerman like Lord Walder, you don't need enemies. I can't tell you I'll bring more than one thousand horsemen because this damn Frey will drag his old feet and play for time. If you had such Bannermen in the North, you would understand my point."

He paused and gave Ned a long, thoughtful look.

"Let's say one thousand and three hundred horsemen, one thousand archers and foot soldiers, on top of that. You'll have more if the lazy Lord Frey answers on time. Do we agree on this?"

Eddard nodded in acquiescence.

"Now let's talk about what you have to offer," the man said, sending shivers down Ned's spine. "You need a wife. You'll marry Lady Catelyn. What? My eldest daughter is not beautiful enough for you?"

Eddard shook his head vehemently.

"Of course, she is, my lord. I'm afraid you mistook my reaction. Lady Catelyn was betrothed to my brother Brandon and we're... quite different. I hope she won't be disappointed by me."

Lord Hoster looked away with a hint of exasperation.

"My daughter will do as I say. Besides, I'm glad she didn't marry your brother. Brandon was brave and skilled, but he was a fool. I don't mean to insult your brother's memory; read it like the opinion of a man concerned by his daughter's future."

He remained silent for a while and Eddard didn't know if he should be relieved because Lord Hoster seemed to agree on him marrying Lady Catelyn or if he should just felt more pressure because the lord of Riverrun was so protective towards his daughter.

"What about Lord Jon Arryn?" Lord Hoster abruptly asked, taking him unawares. "He lost his heir the same day your brother died. If I could send more troops – forcing Frey to respect his commitments – do you think Lord Arryn could consider the prospect of a wedding?"

Ned was not inclined to laugh for any reason, but he found it hard to repress a smile. The idea of the man who had fostered him for years, who was older than his father or the man sat across him, walking down the aisle and wrapping his cloak around the shoulders of a young girl, was incongruous.

"Do you mean a wedding with your younger daughter, my lord?" Eddard asked shyly.

"I won't give him my Edmure, obviously!" Lord Hoster bellowed, annoyed by his reaction. "Lysa is a bit younger than Catelyn, but Jon Arryn shouldn't waste time if he wants a heir, in my humble opinion."

"I need to send him a raven," Eddard said, ill-at-ease.

"Be quick, then. As far as I know, your friend Robert Baratheon needs us. My men are almost ready, so we'll leave at dawn."

Negotiating a wedding for the man who had fostered him exceeded his mission and he feared Arryn's answer. He nevertheless wrote to him, explaining the Tully sisters weddings would give them Lord Hoster's full coöperation. Before the end of the day, a raven brought him a message from Arryn and Eddard immediately informed his host his younger daughter would rule the Vale with her husband.

* * *

He thought the negotiation with Lord Hoster would be the most awkward moment of his stay in Riverrun: he was wide of the mark. His host insisted on introducing his daughters to him during the supper and he felt clumsy and stupid.

Lysa Tully, who was of an age with Benjen, seemed dull and Ned wondered about her pale skin; she looked like a girl who had been sick for a long time and had just recovered. _What a strange consort she will make for Arryn! She's so young. Lord Hoster could have waited one year or two before marrying her._ Fascinated by the content of the dishes, she barely gazed at him.

Her elder sister was completely different and all the characteristics that were only promises in Lysa – the thick auburn hair, the blue eyes and the tall figure – reached their perfection in Catelyn. She had done her hair simply and she didn't wear a sophisticated dress but its dark green color enhanced her ivory complexion and her braids revealed a gracious neck. _She would have been perfect for Brandon_, he realized with bitterness. _And instead of Brandon, she'll have the second son. The second choice._

After the supper, Lord Hoster said he could talk with his future bride, provided that Septa Selene stayed with them. Septa Selene, a tall and broad-shouldered woman whose face was deeply wrinkled, sat on her favorite armchair by the fireplace, took her needlework and seemed to forget about them.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Catelyn said graciously, though her tone sounded a bit cold.

He thanked her, then remembered she had lost the man she was about to marry.

"I'm sorry for your loss as well," he added, awkward and slightly impressed by her. She was almost as tall as him.

"I barely knew your brother," she answered and she led him to the windows.

Under the moonlight, the river still glistened and he wondered if she could ever learn to love Winterfell and its wild landscape, after growing up in the part of the Seven Kingdoms people compared to a garden. Once more intoxicated by the view, he felt like he couldn't talk and when he became aware it disturbed her, it was almost too late to break the silence. She expected a question, a jape, anything. Ned cleared his throat and suddenly remembered an anecdote Brandon had told him about his own stay in Riverrun.

"My brother told me he had to fight for you with this boy your father fostered."

The blue eyes widened and he read a mix of surprise and disappointment on her handsome face.

"Petyr? Oh, don't take him too seriously, he's just a boy. Your brother wanted to give him a lesson and he wished to impress me, I suppose. He shouldn't have fought with Petyr."

She shook her head in disapproval of Brandon's foolishness, then looked at him straight in the eye.

"You won't have to fight for me, since Petyr left," she added.

_You mean your father sent away the troublesome boy who could ruin his plans._ She stayed silent and her proud demeanor didn't encourage Ned to talk; after a while, she turned to her septa, said she felt tired and left him with the tenacious feeling he had spoiled their first meeting.

* * *

**Sandor**

He was breathless, shaking, and his knuckles ached when Gerion Lannister pulled him away from Willem Banefort, one of the oldest squires in Casterly Rock, almost a knight. _Tywin's squire._ Still panting, he gave a look at his opponent lying on the grass; he should have known it was a mistake to throw himself on Banefort who was all muscle and whose family was powerful while he was nothing. _But he challenged me, he provoked me. And I had the upper hand on him. _He decided to ignore the fact that he had made another enemy in a castle where he had so few friends, dusted his jerkin and met Gerion's eyes.

"What's wrong with you?" Gerion shouted, clearly disappointed by his behavior.

Tywin's youngest brother had found Sandor giving Banefort a beating in the orchard, at the foot of a pear tree, surrounded by other squires and pages excited by the fight. The boys bellowed and yelped with every blow but none encouraged Sandor; they were just thrilled by his violence and perhaps glad to see someone hitting Banefort. Banefort was said untouchable, because he was Tywin's squire and because he used to terrify the youngest boys; the pages and squires loved the sight of Banefort beaten by someone else but a fight like this one wouldn't make Sandor one of them. He glanced at the fallen nest, lying on the grass; from where he was standing, it looked like a dark sphere made of twigs and moss. He didn't answer Gerion's question.

Banefort pushed himself from the ground, wincing because of his split lip and carefully feeling the lower part of his face, as if he was afraid to lose his jaw, while the other boys stepped back for fear of his reaction. He pointed at Sandor.

"He's mad, Ser. A mad dog, that's what he is! He threw himself on me, like a damn beast, when I was climbing the pear tree-"

"What were you doing in the pear tree? Stealing green pears?"

Behind them, a boy laughed and Banefort went silent. The shame he read on the squire's face made Gerion think Banefort climbed the tree for a reason he didn't want to explain.

"Tybolt, come here," Gerion ordered.

_No, not Tybolt! He never knows anything, nor sees anything. Tybolt won't say the truth._ Kevan's page was looking at his feet and bit his lower lip like a little girl.

"I didn't see anything, Ser. I arrived when they were already fighting," Tybolt explained, after glancing at Banefort.

"Serrett!" Gerion called. "What happened?"

Serrett seemed as sheepish as Banefort and Gerion immediately noticed his crimson cheeks, if his way of stroking his blond beard was any indication.

"Speak, boy. What was your friend Banefort doing in the pear tree? Speak or I'll send you to the dungeon. Clegane already spent a few days in the dungeon, he can tell you how comfortable it is. Right, Clegane?"

Serrett shifted from foot to foot, ill-at-ease.

"There was a nest in the pear tree, on the highest branch," he finally replied. "Banefort wanted to take the nest, and I said he couldn't because it was too high. He climbed the tree... and that's when Clegane showed up and yelled and climbed the tree as well. He threw himself on him, he made Banefort fall."

"Are you hurt, Banefort? Any broken leg? No, or else you wouldn't stand up," Gerion mocked.

"He threw himself on me," Banefort repeated. "I don't even know why!"

"How old are you, Banefort? When do you expect to become a knight?"

"Seven-and-ten, Ser. I hope I'll be dubbed soon, maybe next year."

"Was it some kind of quest, boy? Climbing the tree and seizing the nest, like a trophy, to give it to your lady? Seven Hells, you need to grow up! Now, go away: I could punish you for the nest, but everyone in this castle will soon know you've been beaten by Clegane and that's enough."

He turned to Sandor after sending away everyone, and sighed heavily.

"What am I going to do, with you?"

Sandor shrugged, while Gerion folded his arms in the now silent orchard. A jay chirped in the nearest hazel tree and he suddenly remembered the white speckled eggs once resting in the nest; he didn't need to look to be sure they had crashed on the ground.

"Why did you throw yourself on someone older?"

"Because he took the nest."

"That would be the most ridiculous reason I ever heard to split open someone's lip."

Sandor shrugged again; even if Gerion was not Kevan who had a stiff expression whenever he looked at him, even if he seemed to take Sandor's side, most of the time, he couldn't tell him why he had beaten Banefort. Sandor couldn't even understand his own reaction.

It all began the day Tywin organized a hunt for Gregor; Banefort, as Tywin's squire, was sure he would come with them. He thought it was his right and Sandor admitted his point of view. The night before, as Tybolt later told Sandor, Banefort boasted himself and told everyone he would hunt in the woods near Casterly Rock and find a way to talk with Gregor – Gregor's dubbing by Prince Rhaegar had done a lot for his reputation. However, Tywin's decision of not taking Banefort with him and, above all, the fact that Sandor took part in the hunt, staying with Tywin, provoked the squire's jealousy and since that day, he considered Sandor like an intruder.

At first, Banefort's japes about Sandor's high-pitched voice were not different from the usual scoffing he heard. Then, insults replaced the daily jokes and it became more personal. Banefort repeated _'You don't belong here'_ every time he met Sandor. The boy clenched his jaw, knowing it was dangerous to take on someone who was more than his match. He knew he didn't really belong to the small world of squires; he talked more to the silly girls working in the kitchens than to his companions. The stupid bet Banefort and Serrett did about the nest infuriated Sandor; he couldn't tell Gerion why without revealing parts of his childhood he tried to forget.

Gregor climbing trees was one of Sandor's first memories about his brother's ill-deeds, probably because when he was a boy of five, watching Gregor playing in the biggest oak near the keep was simply marvelous.

He recalled his own smile, his pride, when Gregor had reached the top of the tree then had looked triumphantly at him. Right after that, Gregor began his descent and took the nest snugly set between the trunk and a branch; he carefully held the nest – a round nest made off dark twigs, very similar to the one Banefort coveted – in his hands when he came back to Sandor to show him what he had found, and to the little boy's surprise, the mass of twigs sang. Four little birds, with their greyish feathers still wet and wings so small they seemed useless, chirped together.

Sandor was fascinated; he asked if he could keep the birds and feed them or if they should put the nest where Gregor had found it. His brother shook his head and smiled, then grabbed one of the nestlings, a tiny greyish bird chirping louder in his hand he threw on the grass. Sandor gasped at the sight of the harmless little bird lying there, sensing Gregor was about to do something wrong and screamed when his brother's heel crushed the bird and put an end to the chirping. As far as he knew, the nestlings had been the first living beings his brother had killed, and until that day, he couldn't stand to see boys destroying nests to have fun. Gregor's recent visit and Banefort's scoffing had done the rest.

As he couldn't confide in Gerion, he stared at the ground and shrugged again, wondering how many days he would spend in the dungeon this time. If things went on like this, people would probably name the dungeon after him, for the weeks he spent behind the bars.

"Come with me," Gerion ordered, frowning.

Eyes downcast, he followed Gerion out of the orchard; they reached the postern, crossed the yard where some squires stared at them, entered the keep and took the spiral staircase leading to the solar. _He's going to tell Tywin what I did. Tywin decided to foster me three days ago and I spoiled everything._ Gerion didn't utter a word, keeping an impenetrable look until he knocked at the solar's door. He came in, Sandor on his heels, and cleared his throat. Tywin sat behind a long table, reading a scroll with a seal almost as big as the message; Kevan watched his elder brother, arms folded, a bored expression on his face.

"What?" Tywin said in his soft, yet impatient tone.

"I found Clegane fighting with another squire," Gerion explained, hardly concealing his anger. "He won't tell me why."

Tywin put away the scroll and observed him while Kevan rolled his eyes.

"I already told you, brother," Kevan sighed. "Too many squires-"

"Shut up: the squires will be useful soon." Then he turned to Gerion. "You said the boy didn't want to tell you why he attacked a squire? Look at me, Clegane, and tell me why you beat him."

Sandor remembered the nest, the little birds killed by his brother years ago and thought his explanations weren't worthy of his liege lord.

"I can't tell you, my lord," he answered sheepishly.

"See!" Kevan exclaimed. "Undisciplined, violent and always acting before thinking of the consequences. This boy is out of control! And you decided he would be _my_ squire? Next time you want to make a squire of some boy, please forget about me!"

"If you don't want to take care of him, I'll do your job. Don't complain if the responsibilities I give you don't suit your talent, though."

Tywin's cutting remark irritated Kevan who left without a word. The lord of Casterly Rock sighed deeply, as if his brother was just another unruly child he fostered because he wanted to do a favor to his family.

"So, Gerion, what did you see? Who was this boy Clegane attacked and who was winning the fight when you intervened?"

"Your squire, Banefort. Clegane had already split his lower lip when I stop the fight."

"It seems this lad has a taste for beating older boys," Tywin commented. "You see, mayhaps the motives are not that important. It's like this rebellion in the Stormlands; why did all this began? Because of a pretty girl disappearing in the North? I don't know if Lyanna Stark is the reason why half the realm fights against King Aerys and frankly, I don't care. Instead of trying to understand why something happen, we should always consider the facts. Who wins? Or the consequences. What will happen if the rebels lose? What if they overthrew the king?"

He pushed himself from his armchair and walked around the table to face them.

"Maybe the fact that Clegane attacked an older boy and had the upper hand on him tells us more about him than the reason why he threw himself on Banefort," he added. "Leave us, Gerion. I'll take care of him."

Gerion didn't react, at first, and slowly retreated from the solar, leaving them alone in the long room from where Tywin Lannister ruled the Westerlands. Sandor felt so ashamed he once more looked at his feet while Tywin walked back to his armchair and lowered his gaze on the mysterious scroll. He read it again, and Sandor wondered why a message so short – it was smaller than Tywin's hand – captivated his overlord. From time to time, he would put the scroll on the table and glanced through the mullion windows, but kept silent. Sandor almost believed he had forgotten about him when Tywin set his green eyes on him.

"My brother Kevan is convinced you're stupid and useless. He says you always smell of onions and manure because you spend your time either in the kitchens or in the stables," he began. "I suppose his conversation with Ser Gregor the other day backs up his analysis. On the other hand, Gerion praises your skills. I wonder if you will be a good swordsman or if you are more than that. What would you say?"

His question took Sandor unawares and he felt an uncomfortable warmth creeping over his cheeks.

"I don't know, my lord."

"Do you know what this message I was reading is about? Of course, you don't but let's play a game. I could send you immediately to the dungeon or tell Symon to flog you until you bleed. Or... I could let you go after lecturing you. It depends on the advice you'll give me. If your advice is good, it means you're able to understand and dungeon is probably not necessary."

Tywin brandished the scroll and the red ribbon hanging from the huge seal brushed his forearm.

"I won't tell you a secret because within a few hours everyone in this castle will know what this message is about; still, I do you a favor asking your opinion about it. It comes from King's Landing; King Aerys faces difficulties with the rebels fighting in the Stormlands and now in the Riverlands. He asks for my help. What should I do? Remember if your answer doesn't suit me, you'll sleep in the dungeon tonight."

Sandor swallowed hard and asked himself if Tywin's boredom was the reason why he needed to play such games.

"Well, my lord... You should probably do what's best for the realm. What's best for the Westerlands," he added, remembering Tywin only cared about the lands he ruled.

"What if the interest of the realm is different from the interest of the Westerlands?" Tywin retorted.

Sandor felt dizzy: the Seven Kingdoms, the Westerlands, the rebellion stirring the country... He remained silent for a while, hesitating until his eyes found the sigil adorned with a roaring lion, painted on a shield.

"I suppose... you should do what is best for House Lannister," he replied abruptly.

Tywin stared at him for a few heartbeats, then nodded. In his face few people were able to read, Sandor saw a hint of amusement but not a single trace of irony.

"This is wiser than what I expected from you, Clegane."

Though he seemed satisfied with this answer, he kept his promise and lectured Sandor about fits of anger, before letting him go.

"One last thing, boy. I'll speak to the master-at-arms and tell him to watch over you; expect him to be uncompromising with you. We'll fight sooner or later and you'd better be ready."

_He'll help the king_, Sandor mused. _He'll help Aerys and try to gain something worthy for House Lannister._ As he stopped on a balcony to give a look at the yard where squires were still training, he imagined himself rescuing the king.

Later on, that same day, when someone told him Tywin had refused to help the crown defeat the rebels, he didn't understand. He recalled every detail of their conversation but couldn't give any sense to Tywin's decision; he nevertheless kept his thoughts for himself and decided to focus on what Tywin had said: training.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**Jon**

The carriage shuddered on the dirt road leading to King's Landing and the slightest jolt hurt his body. Wounded and sore, bumping along like a bunch of dirty linen tossed at the back of a cart, Jon would have given anything to sleep or to forget the past days and what awaited him in the capital.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the shale stairs he had climbed to face Robert, their dark grey color, their flaws, the spots where too many boots and clogs had rubbed, carving the stone. He had even felt the warmth radiating from the shale at that hour of the day. The monumental staircase had lost its luster and that day, the day Robert left his hiding place and finally showed up, it was just the best place to watch the royal army grappling with the rebels hidden under the clothes of commoners so far.

He had fallen on these stairs, when Robert's longsword had hit his shoulder and chest; he had thought he would die there, in front of the bronze door concealing the inside of the sept from curious eyes, because his men had such a hard time with the rebels they couldn't do anything for him. He let his mind wander to the Red Keep, to the yard where he used to train with Rhaegar, then to Griffin's Roost, remembered the first impression he had had on his prince. _"How can someone have purple eyes and silver-blond hair?"_ This inner interrogation had been soon replaced by another "_How can a boy be so handsome and yet seem so strong?"_

His thoughts had drifted as he genuinely believed he would be dead soon, embracing the beloved shores of the Stormlands and Maegor's Holdfast, the lands of his father and the places he had visited with Rhaegar and finally focused on Rhaegar himself – his figure, the strands of silver hair brushing his cheekbones, the veins so visible on his hands every time he tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword. Jon knew his last breath would bring a single name on his lips, and right when he had accepted his fate, only ruing his failure against the rebellion, two hands had lifted him from the shale stairs and he had thought confusedly he just wanted to die there, like the young archer who had perished, if he couldn't kill Robert and bring back his head to the capital. His savior, though, grunted and lifted him over his shoulder, keeping a hand on the small of his back. _Like a fucking damsel in distress._

Being carried away from the square where the soldiers still faced the rebels causing so much pain – and so much shame – he regained consciousness immediately and recognized Ser Doran Allyrion's sigil embroidered on the cloak he wore over his plate – a golden hand on gyronny red and black, mimicking the gesture of a man who stops his enemy – at least, with his head hanging down, he saw a golden wrist on a blur of red and black, as Allyrion hurried to find a maester for Jon and a quiet place for both of them. As they crossed the streets between the sept and the market square, he heard Allyrion giving orders to the loyalists and commanding them to protect their retreat.

They found shelter in a deserted tavern where Ser Doran shouted he would kill anyone who tried to move or to leave; there were only the owner and his two sons inside. They glared at them and cursed in an undertone but didn't resist. As Allyrion had given more orders before storming in the tavern, one of the maesters who accompanied the army finally arrived then took care of Jon and of two other soldiers.

"You'll be turned around within a week, maybe two," he flatly announced once the bleeding stopped. "You need to rest, my lord."

Jon had never heard something more stupid: if he had survived his fight with Robert, he had to organize the retreat of his men. Thus, he gave orders to Ser Doran and the other soldiers who were there, told them to exit the city through the eastern gate, sent two men outside of the town to explain the situation to Lord Yronwood, who was resisting the Stark and Arryn hosts, and to deliver him more instructions.

Five hours later, Jon was lying at the back of a carriage stuck between the carts that once brought food to the army, protected by the rearguard and feeling every jolt. They had successfully retreated from Stoney Sept, if leaving the city without Robert's head in a basket was ever a success. Many men had died, that day, but the losses of the royal army could have been worse; under Yronwood's command, the men fighting outside of Stoney Sept wrought havoc in the North and Vale hosts. _But Allyrion died_, he thought, wincing. _He saved my life, did his best so that we could retreat and one bastard rebel slit his throat as he tried to protect me again._

He remembered the squinting eyes of Ser Doran, giving a strange and almost comic expression to his weathered face. The Dornish knight's corpse was heading to the capital as well, wrapped in his long cloak, in a cart bumping along somewhere behind Jon. He tried to remember House Allyrion's motto and the irony struck him when the words finally popped in his head: _No Foe May Pass_. _Ser Doran was just applying this motto when he died and the treacherous dagger of a rebel rewarded his bravery._

* * *

The apartments located in the Tower of the Hand didn't look more familiar to him when he came back than before chasing Robert. _So much the better, I guess, now that I have to pack._

Aerys dismissed him, stripped him of his lands and titles and exiled him. The king didn't want to hear him or anyone else about Stoney Sept and the retreat Jon had led despite his wounds; he only focused on the failure, on the fact that Robert was still alive and refused his counselors advice. When the king had announced his dismissal during the Small Council, Jon had met Varys distressed gaze. _Even the bloody Spider can't maneuver him. _As a token of magnanimity, Aerys allowed Jon's squire to help him pack, since he had not entirely recovered but the result was the same: he had to leave King's Landing before the end of the next day.

His squire was dancing around in the apartments of the Hand, asking him what to do with the candelabras or what clothes he wanted to take with him and Jon watched the boy, helpless, wondering where Rhaegar was. While answering evasively to his squire whose agitation grew by the minute, Jon became aware he wouldn't see Rhaegar before leaving the Red Keep. He felt both furious and doleful when an argument in the corridor made him turn his head. The guards were quarreling with someone who demanded to see him. Before he could reach the door, the intruder had already opened it and he saw Princess Elia coming in, her daughter on her heels. Leaning back against the wall and almost out of breath, she was the shadow of her former self, tired and unsteady on her feet; her olive skin was now white-yellow, with a waxen aspect, and strands of brown hair stuck to her damp temples. Jon caught a glimpse at the anxious lady-in-waiting who had guided her along the corridors and closed the door.

"You shouldn't be here," he said in a reproachful tone, deliberately forgetting salutation and gallantry.

_After all, my dismissal means I won't have to play their games anymore._

Her chest heaving, Elia didn't answer and let her eyes flutter about until she found a proper seat; she chose the old armchair where Jon loved to read the _History of the Rhoynish Wars_ with a cup of wine and she nearly collapsed against the cushions.

"We need to talk," she told him, adopting the same straightforward tone.

He dismissed his squire, and as the boy shut the door, he noticed Rhaenys was standing in front of him, smiling and confident. She held out to him a kitten, a tiny animal with a black and white fur.

"Is it for me? You would be the only member of House Targaryen to offer me something," he said bitterly. "King Aerys even refused to reward House Allyrion, after Ser Doran's death. The man saved my life. The king replied he didn't have to acknowledge his bravery for he saved a traitor."

Elia sighed deeply and he decided her sympathy was sincere.

"I knew Ser Doran since I was a child. He was a good man," she told him.

Vaguely disappointed by Jon's indifference, Rhaenys put down the kitten and tugged his top boots.

"Connig," the little girl called. "Connig."

"I tried to teach her the name of everyone living in the Red Keep," Elia commented in an apologetic tone, "but 'Lord Connington' seems too long for my daughter."

As Rhaenys opened her arms for him, he grabbed the little girl's chubby middle and took her in his arms. She squirmed with enthusiasm.

"Red hair, red hair, red hair," she intoned, smiling.

"No, Rhaenys," Elia said, "I told you-"

"It doesn't matter. We're beyond courtesies and titles, now."

Elia considered for a while the man who held her daughter and looked for a place to sit, because in his condition, even the weight of a four-years-old girl was too much for him. He finally closed the chest where his squire had put his belongings and sat down on it. Rhaenys warmth was comforting as she rested on his lap. _I will never had children_, he thought, and the realization almost hurt him.

"I didn't see him," he confessed, eager to break the silence.

"Neither do I," she replied, fighting back her tears. _No need to say who we are talking about._

"He came back after the birth of our son," she added, "He said his name was Aegon and he left. Rhaegar neglects all those who love him, these days."

Her gaze was so insistent it infuriated Jon. _Oh, please... Don't act as if we were that similar._ However, he knew she was right in that they shared the same sorrow.

"I wonder where is Lord Varys," Elia suddenly whispered.

"Did you tell Varys to come here?" he asked her in disbelief. "Well, I didn't expect to see him before leaving. The more the merrier."

As if he was meant to show up every time someone said his name, a faint knock at the door announced the eunuch's arrival. Smoothing his long turquoise robe, he stared at Jon who still held Rhaenys in his arms. Jon ignored him and lowered his eyes to see Rhaenys light brown hair and rounded cheeks; the little girl leaned back against his chest, unaware of his wounds. He winced but didn't move. _Her mother's a fool but I could get along well with this one._

"My lord," Varys told him, "what happened to you is so unfair I can't tell how sorry I am. Your dismissal is just the worst decision the king made..."

_No: roasting Lord Rickard was his worst decision. Killing him spurred the rebels on. My dismissal is a non event._

"What do you want from me?" he cut Varys off, exasperated. "How can I be useful now that the king banned me?"

This question seemed to galvanize the eunuch, who briefly smiled.

"You'll be our bridgehead in Essos. Our last resort if the royal army is defeated. Princess Elia's protector should she flee from Westeros."

"King Aerys won't let me go to Dorne," she explained, slowly shaking her head. "His Grace thinks Dorne could join the rebellion if I come back to Sunspear. Hostages: that's what we are, my children and myself."

He lowered his gaze again and met Rhaenys trusting eyes.

"I should steal your daughter, then, and take her to Essos. At least, she wouldn't be a hostage anymore."

He spoke in a mocking tone but once uttered, the suggestion didn't seem so foolish to him. However, Elia panicked and tried to push herself from the old armchair before giving up.

"My children are not going anywhere without me!" she hissed, adamant.

"Are you out of your mind, Connington?" Varys asked, going further. "If Princess Rhaenys leaves the Red Keep, my plan will never work!"

"Your plan?" Jon growled. "You wanted to convince Aerys to allow her to leave and you lamentably failed!"

He delivered this truth with such a strength Rhaenys shivered and clutched his forearm.

"You shouldn't trust him, Elia," he warned her, a sarcastic smile appearing on his lips, "He's the man who whispered my name when the king wanted a new Hand. Look where that got me!"

"Why are you so hateful?" she muttered.

"Will you keep your promise and welcome Princess Elia and the children if need be?" Varys asked.

Jon sighed heavily and nodded.

"I will. But I persist in saying you should let the little girl come with me. I would take good care of her."

The eunuch shook his bald head vehemently, as if he was reasoning with a madman.

"It would destroy Princess Elia's chances... Do you want the king to send her to some dungeon? I didn't want to discuss such matters with you, but she could have died in childbirth! She needs to recover and then, she'll escape the Red Keep. With the children."

Jon saw the eunuch and the princess nodding at the same time, like two children trying to reassure each other, despite the danger threatening them. _Bloody fools. _Varys stepped forward and planted himself in front of him, holding out a purse.

"I will send you messages so that you know what is happening here. I wish you all the best, my lord."

"I'm not a lord anymore and I don't want your gold."

The Spider wouldn't give up though, and he insisted until Jon took the purse. Then, he tilted his head and Jon read it as a sign of impatience; Varys thought all had been said and it was time for him and Elia to go back to their apartments. Jon pushed himself from the chest, Rhaenys still in his arms. _Rhaegar has been gone for so long she could mistake any man for her father_, he mused as the little girl rewarded him with a mischievous smile. Her weight nevertheless elicited a painful grunt when he tried to lift her so that her face was close to his; he stroke her brown curls, pinched her cheek and grudgingly let her go. When he stood up straight, Varys offered his arm to Elia who seemed ready to faint.

"Where's the cat?" she suddenly asked, frowning, and Varys, delighted by the distraction it provided, left her to look for the kitten throughout the untidy room.

"Here, Your Grace. He was hiding behind the curtains," Varys announced triumphantly and he placed the animal in Rhaenys arms. Elia had already forgotten the cat and turned to Jon.

"There are so many things I would like to say to you," she said softly. "I know you, I know your pride and the feeling of guilt oppressing you because you think you failed. In my eyes, you didn't fail. And I know I can trust you, despite..."

She stopped short of telling more, embarrassed.

"Is there something you want me to tell my husband, when he comes back?" she added, blushing slightly.

Her solicitude, one of the many things he hated so much about her, didn't infuriate him for once.

"No," he answered flatly. _This is the end of everything I fought for and there's nothing to say._

She urged her daughter to bid him goodbye and once again, the little girl mispronounced his name.

"'Jon' is fine," he told Rhaenys, squatting in front of her.

"Jon Red hair," the girl whispered with a gleeful expression, burying her nose in the kitten's fur.

Giving this nickname to Jon enchanted her, probably because it inevitably irked her mother. His wounded shoulder stung when he stood up; he contemplated Elia for a while, took in her bister complexion and her doe-eyed stare.

"Goodbye, Jon. We'll meet very soon, in a different place."

Leaning against the eunuch's arm, Elia gave him a sad smile, took her daughter's hand and left him in the shambles that was his room. He walked back to the chest where he held Rhaenys a moment earlier, sat on it and began to realize what exile meant.

* * *

**Sandor**

The master-at-arms, unshaven, his paunch popping out of his breeches, looked at them solemnly and cleared his throat.

"This will be our last training day. We're going to King's Landing with all the Lannister Bannermen. At least some of you will come with us."

The news brought enthusiasm among the squires and pages gathered in the yard, under the morning sun. The oldest squires strutted around, sure they would be part of the host, confident in their skills and bravery. They all dreamed of feats of arms, of rewards, of people calling their names, of songs written about them. While they all gloated over the journey, Sandor didn't move and stayed perfectly silent. Fighting meant giving free rein to his violent urges while he tried to control them daily. He was good at only one thing, people usually forbid him to do it and suddenly, the ban had disappeared and he would be praised for beating and hurting his fellow-men. It was so disturbing he felt dizzy and hardly avoided Serret who jumped and ran about in excitement.

"Pages are not coming," the master-at-arms announced, after shushing them.

A disappointed clamor spread in the yard.

"No! Master Symon!" a boy protested.

"I said...You'll stay with Ser Kevan. War is not for children."

_Ser Kevan stays here!_ Sandor kept himself from leaping like a mountain goat, then panicked: a squire belonged with his master. What if Tywin had decided that neither Kevan nor him would move from Casterly Rock? And suddenly, he felt like everybody attended a feast of which he was excluded.

"Clegane! Where are you?" the master-at-arms rasped. "Stop hiding yourself behind the pages, you pig-head, you're taller than anyone."

Some squires gave a raucous laughter; the pages were too frustrated by the idea of staying in the Westerlands to appreciate any joke, while everybody packed for the capital. Sandor dragged his feet obediently and positioned himself in front of the master-at-arms. Symon told the squires to take their shield and sword for the training and dismissed the pages.

"You'll train with me, today," he explained, sputtering on Sandor's good cheek. "Want to see how you improved on your sword fight."

It sounded more like an attempt to prevent a brawl, as the other squires kept on provoking Sandor and Sandor kept distrusting them.

"Am I going with you to King's Landing?" he asked, trying to conceal his nervousness.

As usual, his high-pitched voice betrayed him and the master-at-arms snorted, conscious of his wish to accompany the host.

"Of course, we'll take you there! You'll be the youngest member of the host, the one who will bring good luck. No need to say you'll have to prove yourself. It's a great honor."

_Some people don't understand why Tywin is so generous with me and they'll let me know I don't belong with the host._ Now he could read between the lines.

Sandor nodded eagerly and took the sword he had been given; like the rest of his equipment, it was someone else's. The master-at-arms had liberally offered him everything, from the shield to the mismatched armor, picking up discarded weapons and old plate forgotten by some careless squire. His uncommon size had complicated Master Symon's task and Sandor knew he wore the most pathetic armor of the Seven Kingdoms.

"There are plenty of good armorsmiths in King's Landing," Master Symon taunted him, as if he could read his thoughts. "Fencing position, Clegane!"

* * *

When he came in the kitchens, he understood she was having a bad day: she shouted at Willa and one of the boys who had spilled some soup on the tiles ran away before she could chide him. All of a sudden, Fat Jeyne turned around, her chest heaving and he met her sad eyes._ She already knows._

As he frantically searched his brain for something appropriate to say, he stepped forward, then raised his head to look at her: the girls were gone, as if they sensed their presence was intrusive. He stared at the grey-haired woman, standing hands on her hips in the deserted kitchens and his enthusiasm for their journey to King's Landing immediately vanished.

"So you're leaving," she stated.

Now that his eyes adjusted themselves to the dim light, he could see the wrinkles on her forehead and at the corners of her mouth, and above all, the weariness in her gaze. Whenever a member of his kin died, a feeling of being forsaken had overwhelmed him – soon replaced by a seething rage – and for the first time in his life, he had the impression that he abandoned someone. It was way more disturbing than the prospect of giving free rein to his natural tendency to hit and to hurt.

Somehow, he knew she expected him to talk and he wanted to say something as well, but the words were stuck in his throat, so he simply shrugged.

"Lord Tywin changed his mind overnight," she commented, a bit stiffly. "Didn't think it would be so soon. Are you happy to make war, boy?"

"I don't know."

That was all he was able to say and it was sincere. An uncomfortable silence filled the room as they carefully avoided each other's gaze. Sandor thought of the kitchen maids who were waiting somewhere outside, of Kevan who was most likely looking for him, of how ashamed he would feel if he started to cry, which was likely, but his feet seemed glued to the greasy tiles and he stayed there, silent.

"Promise me to take care of yourself, Sandor," she stuttered, placing a dark lock behind his ear. "You're a big boy, now. I'll give you some food, for the journey: dry sausage, cheese... Things you can keep a week or two. I know you're a big eater, but make it last, if you can."

"We'll be back soon," he said, in a derisory attempt to reassure her.

It didn't work and he felt terribly stupid when her lower lip began to tremble.

"I'm an old woman. Who will carry the heavy logs if you're not here?" she asked, trying to laugh. "Your brother will be there, so you'd better stay with Ser Gerion. He's a good man, Ser Gerion. Be careful, Sandor, and come back to me soon."

"Take care," he replied. "Take care and-"

He couldn't finish his sentence and embraced her, the way he would have embraced his mother. She clutched to him, her fingers tangling in his hair, repressing a sob. She smelt of lemons and green peas, that day, a smell that disgusted Kevan and infuriated him whenever Sandor had spent too much time in the kitchens. _I'll miss this smell._

She finally pulled away and told him to go, wiping her tears with the back of her plump hands, almost chiding him. When he left her, he felt different. There was a persistent sadness, which made him sigh from time to time, and the intuition that he could never see her again. However, a sort of pride budded inside him: it had nothing to do with his impending departure for King's Landing: it was the thought, very simple yet unfamiliar, that somebody would be waiting for his return.

* * *

_If someone sings 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' once more, I swear I'll rip out his tongue._

They had been on the road for five days, now, and everybody kept on telling him how much he would learn during their journey, how many lessons he would receive in such a short amount of time. They thought of lessons about warfare and swordplay and camp life. However, as far as camp life was concerned, Sandor had learned one single lesson he would undoubtedly remember for the rest of his life: he hated groups and couldn't stand the over-closeness with squires, knights and the rest of the Lannister host. He craved for solitude. He missed the thick wooden doors and the bolts which allowed him not to be disturbed. Under the canvas tents, one could never be alone for a long time; there were always men shouting and laughing somewhere.

During the day, as they rode on the River Road, he had ingenuously thought it would be exhilarating to ride and to discover unfamiliar landscapes: and it was admittedly pleasing, but his pleasure vanished every time a squire or a knight began to bellow _'The Bear and the Maiden Fair'._

_"Oh I'm a maid,""_

_And I'm pure and fair," _

_"I'll never dance," _

_"With a hairy bear," _

_"A bear! A bear!" _

_"I'll never dance," _

_"With a hairy bear!"_

Sandor couldn't say he had something against that song before; he knew it by heart, even sang it – before becoming aware he had the most twangy voice of the Westerlands – but when Peckledon decided that it would be fun to bawl it whenever they meet someone on the road, Sandor quickly understood why his father always say that silence was golden. _Can't someone tell him to shut up?_ His companions beamed senselessly and sang along. When they all sang together, Bannermen, squires and foot soldiers, the sound was deafening; it was like Tywin's host wanted to be heard leagues away. _To threaten our enemies? Don't we have the drum for that purpose?_

Sandor had made one friend during the first days of their journey, despite the usual taunting of the squires, and Kevan would have disapproved, for sure: the drummer who accompanied the host, a miner's son from Nunn's Deep. Talbert was ten-and-four, had freckles all over his face and was too scared of the other boys to refuse Sandor's help, the day Banefort and his friends planned to throw him in the nearest river, to make sure the boy couldn't swim.

Somehow, the dry sausages offered by Fat Jeyne helped as well their nascent friendship. They used to chew bits of dry meat at night, by the fire, while men sang and drank away the tiredness of the day. They barely talked, Sandor being too shy and Talbert not wishing to put his new friend's patience to the test; Talbert seemed in awe of his height, his strength and his taciturn behavior.

Sandor was silently enjoying the salty taste of dry sausage and watching the flames when a shrill laughter made him turn his head; there were two women chatting and laughing with a bunch of archers nearby.

"Why are those women here?" he asked Talbert with a suspicious tone.

In his mind, things were quite simple: men worked and fought while a woman's place was in the kitchens. A feminine presence within the camp, among the soldiers, was incongruous.

"They're washerwomen," Talbert replied, pleased to notice he could impress Sandor with his knowledge.

"Washerwomen? This is nonsense; I can take care of my clothes."

That was probably another reason why Kevan wrinkled his nose every time he met him in Casterly Rock. Talbert chuckled, until Sandor's gaze darkened with anger.

"We call them washerwomen, but they don't really wash clothes," he explained. "They're just camp followers. Whores, if you prefer. I'd wager you've never been with a woman."

Sandor stared at his new friend and decided he was getting too bold.

"'Cause _you_'ve been with a woman? You don't even have a beard! I bet the last time you saw tits was when your mother still breastfed you."

With that, he sat back and cut another slice of dry sausage; as remorse crept in a corner of his mind, he offered some to Talbert. _I should talk to these women and tell them to stay away from Gregor,_ he thought. He got on his feet so abruptly the drummer looked at him in astonishment and he walked towards the group formed by the archers and the so-called washerwomen.

Feeling terribly awkward, he cleared his throat. One of the two women was already wriggling and laughing in the oldest archer's arms, a plump blonde who seemed to draw every man's attention, so he chose to tug the other woman's sleeve. She turned around to face him, took in his height and broad shoulders but her smile vanished when she saw the unburnt half of his face – thanks to the darkness, she couldn't see the scars hidden by his hair: _a child_, he read in her surprised look. She was a mere child, as well: a lanky girl with dark brown hair, dark eyes and a flat bosom.

"What is it you want, cutie?" she asked him with a hint of impatience. "I don't do children. Come back in a few years. Please."

He went red bright, at the thought of what she had imagined and tried to ignore her sarcasm.

"I don't ask for anything, I just want to warn you. See the big man on your left, taller than anyone else? Ser Gregor. Stay away from him, don't talk to him, don't... don't lay with him." He realized he was out of breath, mostly because of his uneasiness, and waited for the girl's reaction. "You should tell your friend, too. He's dangerous. I mean it," he added.

She crossed her arms tightly, in a desperate attempt to bring attention on her small breasts.

"Why should I trust you about him?" she asked, cocking her head to the side. "Mayhaps you're just a nasty boy who wants to ruin this young man's night?"

"He's a killer," he whispered, hoping the archers wouldn't hear him. "He's got blood on his hands."

She burst out laughing, throwing back her head, and it sounded quite artificial; he wondered if cheap wine caused this fit of laughter or if she was just exaggerating her self-confidence.

"Look around you, boy. This is a host. They are killers. All of them."

The girl shrugged to show how little she cared about his opinion, and gave him a condescending smile, hoping he would understand and leave her with her new friends. Sandor shook his head in helplessness and saw her expression changing; her eyes were now wide open and disgust made her cringe. _She saw my scars._ He wanted to run away but he resisted the urge, eager to give the girl one reason to stay away from his brother.

"See my scars?" he told her with as much casualness as possible, "Want to know who did that to me?" He gestured towards Gregor. "Now, believe me or not, I don't give a damn. If you or the likes of you want to get killed, that's your business. I was just saying."

In front of him, the girl hesitated between absolute panic and annoyance; in the end, irritation prevailed.

"I told you to come back in a few years but don't," she said with a malevolent smile."I don't do cripples either."

He clenched his fists and dug his nails deep in his palms not to slap her face. Fortunately, the archers had finally noticed his presence and one of them decided he was old enough to get drunk.

"We're going to see if a big boy like you is able to hold his drink!" the oldest archer exclaimed.

He had left the fair-haired woman with one of his friends and he grabbed Sandor's shoulders unceremoniously. He made him sit by the fire and forced him to drink out of his wineskin. That's how Sandor got drunk for the first time, sharing wine with men he barely knew and sitting across an infuriated girl who had rejected him.

* * *

He felt terrible. Terrible and betrayed; nobody had ever told him one could feel so bad, so miserable after drinking. Drinking was supposed to be fun and it had been somehow: after a while – after the first wineskin, precisely – he had completely forgotten the stupid girl who didn't want to believe him, forgotten his brother, as well. He had even thought that the archers were the better companions one could dream of, and told himself it was good to be surrounded by people shouting and singing.

The first rays of light dissipated the well-being he had felt a few hours ago and made his thoughts of the night before seem foolish. Kneeling by the stream, he sprayed himself with some fresh water. _Disappointing._ He needed something more drastic to get rid of his queasiness so he plunged his head under the water, then shook himself like the dog he was in the eyes of the other squires. He grabbed the bucket he had taken before leaving the place where he had ended up the night before, collected some water and got back to Tywin's tent.

If Tywin wanted to make his relationship with the squires more difficult, he couldn't take a better decision: Sandor had lost his master with Kevan staying in Casterly Rock, so Tywin had settled on having the boy serving him, even if Banefort had been his squire for four years. Thus, Tywin had two squires constantly fighting each other to obey his orders. And that morning, Sandor wanted to take advantage on Banefort who was probably still sleeping it off somewhere. A smug smile creeping on his twisted lips, he slalomed between the tents, the soldiers who had fallen asleep outside and the remains of last night's bender – empty wineskins and suspect puddles smelling of vomit – until he reached his lord's tent.

Tywin was already awoken and asked Sandor to bring him fresh clothes, not before questioning his damp hair and ungroomed looks. All of a sudden, Banefort stormed in the tent, as disheveled as his young rival. _He woke up with a start and thought he would be the first one in Tywin's tent. But I won._ Sandor rewarded him with a scowl, then noticed a sparkle of amusement in Tywin's eyes. _Maybe he did it on purpose and wanted to see if we would tear each other to pieces._

"Clegane, I need to talk to Ser Gerion. Please find him," Tywin commanded. "Banefort, go fetch some more water."

Even Tywin's orders seemed to acknowledge his morning victory over Banefort and this certitude wiped away the last memories of his hangover; he rushed out of the tent and ran to the opposite side of the camp, where Gerion had settled for the night. Tywin's younger brother was almost ready and welcomed him with a frown.

"Did you try to drown yourself or something? And what's that smell? Seven hells, you've been drinking!"

Eyes downcast, Sandor didn't dare to look at him. Gerion chuckled.

"Was it your first night of bender?" he asked, hardly concealing his curiosity. Sandor nodded and Gerion patted his shoulder. "Tell me, boy, what was it like?"

"Good," he decided abruptly. "It was good."

"Talkative as ever," Gerion commented. "At least, you won't boast yourself about your feats. What is it that my brother wants?"

As Sandor explained he didn't have the slightest idea, Gerion stretched his arms over his head and stared at the meadow where the Lannister host had spent the night; his gaze embraced the tents, the heaps of ashes where soldiers had made camp fires, the lazy forms still curled under a blanket. "I don't like camp life either," he confessed suddenly, before heading to his brother's tent.

* * *

**Eddard**

Jon Arryn had a solemn face, that day, in Riverrun's sept. Standing between the altars of the Mother and the Father, each one of them waited for his bride-to-be and Eddard couldn't decide who was more nervous. _Arryn got married twice, aye, but he clicked heels. Several times._ Clicking heels was typical of Arryn when he was ill-at-ease and there was something about the hard-faced man that suggested he lacked assertiveness.

Suddenly, Lord Hoster Tully appeared, giving both arms to his daughters and Ned's heart skipped a beat. As they slowly walked down the aisle, he sensed how Arryn's back was tense and almost forgot about the butterflies in his stomach. He glanced at the assembly and saw Howland's familiar features, both serious and comforting; some of the Northerners had accompanied him, but among them, Howland was his only true friend.

Robert was still in the South. _It's better like that I suppose._ The desperate situation in Stoney Sept – Robert wounded and hidden in besieged town – had turned into a victory for the rebels and Eddard reckoned he had done his part. Robert's attitude had nevertheless incensed him when he boasted about the details of his stay in Stoney Sept and the battle between his men and the royalists. Listening to Robert jesting about the whores who had hidden him during the last night or mocking Jon Connington's look when he had seen Robert standing on the stairs leading to the sept annoyed him. After all, Connington had fought bravely when he could have burned down the city and slaughtered the inhabitants. Ned had even admitted in front of Howland that he was ashamed when people associated his name to Robert's.

They had argued, just after the battle of Stoney Sept, about Cafferen and Grandison, about the battle of Stoney Sept and how Robert intended to use his victory, about what the next goal might be. _We argued about everything, yet I was not able to tell Robert that what I can't forgive is his attitude towards my sister. _Robert still invoked his love for Lyanna but kept on whoring openly.

It became more and more obvious that their long-lasting friendship, which had begun the day they had met at the Eyrie – they were both homesick orphans, though Eddard still had his father at that time – wore away, like rocks on a wind-battered coast. However, what took ages on the shores of the Narrow Sea had been very quick in their case: one single remark uttered by a disillusioned Lyanna had created the first breach and their differences, which for years seemed to be a strong bond, had done the rest.

The septon's throat clearing brought him out of his thoughts; Catelyn Tully was standing beside him, more gracious and impressive than ever.

* * *

In one swift movement, he pushed aside the furs, swung his legs over the side of the bed and stared at the empty fireplace. Fireplaces were no more used in Riverrun, now that the sun was warmer, however, at night, one could catch a cold. Eddard didn't really care and sat there undressed, repressing a yawn. His eyes gradually adjusted themselves to the darkness and when he glanced over his shoulder, he discerned his bride's lying form under the furs. Catelyn's eyes were closed and she was alone in the sanctuary sleep provided her, far from her husband's failures and torments. Somehow, Ned envied her her serenity and the way she always carried herself with self-confidence.

During the festivities, she had played her part with gentleness and dignity, searching his gaze, answering with grace to every question, sometimes looking at her sister with a hint of concern: exactly what he expected from her. _But I'm far from fulfilling her expectations._ He had been distant with Catelyn and he had read in her eyes his coldness saddened her.

Once alone in their bedroom, she had been disappointed by his absent-minded behavior, by his lack of tenderness, yet she didn't complain nor forget her good manners. The realization that he couldn't give her more affection, that he was so terribly clumsy with her infuriated him. _She doesn't deserve this. She's beautiful and sweet and I should take care of her instead of acting like a northern brute._

His thoughts drifted to the war stirring the realm. _What will happen if we fail? I'll probably lose my head and Winterfell will be given to some royalist Southerner. And what about her?_ He glanced at Catelyn again, who shifted slightly in her sleep. Ned shook his head to reject the worst eventuality. _Hoster Tully is no fool; he wouldn't have given both his daughters to rebel lords if he wasn't sure we are going to win this war. But what will happen then?_

Robert had already claimed the Iron Throne for himself should the rebellion triumph. It was a stumbling block between them and at the same time, Eddard felt relieved no one thought of him to rule the Seven Kingdoms. At some point, he had suggested Viserys, King Aerys younger son, could sit on the throne, provided that someone else – Jon Arryn, for instance – ruled in his name. Robert had laughed at the thought and Eddard had finally understood he meant to destroy the Targaryen family. The prospect frightened him; he foresaw the hostility of the smallfolk and didn't know how he would react if they were all banned.

_This is crazy_, he thought, cradling his head in his hands. _Why am I doing all this, marrying a girl someone else chose for me, fighting people I don't even know, taking responsibilities in a war of which conduct I disapprove? I'm so obsessed with this war I can't even talk or behave properly with my wife. Why?_ All of a sudden, the answer emerged in the form of a young girl with a pale skin and long dark hair. _Lyanna. She's the reason why I did what I did, even if I have doubts, even if Robert strings bad decisions together._ His heart in his throat, he remembered how he loved to talk to his sister, how good he felt whenever they met. _Where are you, now? Where does Rhaegar keep you?_

Ned heard Catelyn sigh behind him and the heap of furs on his left moved slightly as she sat up.

"What's wrong, Eddard?"

Her voice exuded gentleness and when he felt her fingers timidly brushing his upper arm, he realized how concerned she was. All this affected her, as well, and he shouldn't forget it. Her father had decided who she would marry overnight, then events tumbled out: the alliance between House Tully and the rebels, the wedding, their first night together and when dawn would come, his leaving. This war had turned her life upside down and she accepted the changes with a bravery one could only praise.

Eddard turned slowly to face her and what he saw, thanks to the moon rays escaping the heavy curtains, would have delighted him in other circumstances: she was sitting, holding a pelt with both hands to cover her breasts, her long hair partly concealing her slender shoulders, and she lifted a timid gaze toward him. _Do I deserve her affection?_

"How do you feel, now?" he asked her tentatively, as if wedding night was some illness.

"Fine," she answered softly. "I just wonder what's in my husband's mind and prevents him from sleeping. Did I do something wrong?"

One of her hand let go of the fur and he felt her cool fingertips running over his arm; there was such a tenderness in her gesture he decided to be honest with her. He shook his head.

"You didn't do anything wrong, my lady. I was thinking of my sister Lyanna, that's all."

Thoughtful, she avoided his gaze for a few heartbeats, then she locked eyes with him again.

"You always think of your sister, don't you?" she whispered.

Ned nodded instantly. _She's a quick learner. We barely know each other but she understands everything._

"I know you love your sister and you want her back... All your efforts to find her impress me. However... Eddard, can I ask you something?"

Her voice suddenly revealed a hint of anxiety as her fingers stopped running down his arm and froze on his wrist. Ned took her hand in his and squeezed it gently.

"I realize how you care for your sister and I wonder... is there some place for me in your heart?"

It was not a rhetorical question only meant to prompt a love declaration; she didn't expect him to protest he worshiped her. Her interrogation sounded genuine, and only showed her doubts about their relationship. He stared at her and saw his own reflection in her eyes: a man caught in a war he didn't approve, so worried and grief-stricken he couldn't return his young wife's endearment.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**Eddard**

"How many men do we have?" Robert asked, while his squire, a youth who looked like a little boy, compared to the tall and muscular Lord of Storm's End, helped him fasten his armor. Apart from the squire, it was just the three of them in the tent: Arryn, Robert and him, wondering why he was here.

"More than thirty thousand men, according to my calculations," Arryn answered. "I would say thirty-three thousand men, including the Tully host."

Robert grunted and Ned couldn't tell what elicited that sound – some blunder the squire had made or satisfaction?

"And how many are they?"

"It depends," Arryn offered. Ned noticed his baritone voice was a little more faltering than usual. "It depends on how the royalist forces we faced in Stoney Sept reorganized themselves and it depends on the Dornishmen."

"How many?" Robert didn't care about hiding his impatience or showing Arryn the regard he deserved.

"Should the Dornish forces come, we would be outnumbered."

"There's something else." Eddard cleared his throat, deciding what Arryn had told him just before joining Robert couldn't wait anymore. "Peasants spotted Rhaegar on the road to the Trident. He'll command the royal army, most likely."

Robert spun on his heels so abruptly the squire stumbled and fell on his bottom. A wide grin, containing all the resentment and thirst for revenge Robert had stored up since Lyanna's abduction, had spread on his face.

"Best news in days. I'm going to kill this bastard. Really, Ned, you make my day."

Arryn shifted nervously beside Eddard and he thought the Lord of the Vale would say something or try to chide Robert, but he gave up. _We all give up; Robert is wilder everyday and we refuse to see that._

"How was Riverrun? How were the brides?"

A bawdy smile pulled up the corner of his lips.

"Both Lady Catelyn and Lady Lysa are charming," Arryn replied. "Ned refused the bedding ceremony on the grounds that he didn't want to break noses on such a day nor scare his young wife."

It sounded like a threat if Robert asked for more details, but he didn't get it.

"So she's lovely, isn't she?" he rasped, laughing. "Does she have big tits?"

_Women are the only thing that distract him from war_, Eddard mused. _Does it work the other way around?_

"Eager to fight Rhaegar?" he asked back.

Robert's smile vanished immediately and he grunted again.

"Anything else?" Robert said as the squire tentatively brought his mailed gloves. "No? We'll meet outside then."

And that was all: they exited the tent, Arryn gave an endless sigh like he used to do every time Robert misbehaved and finally turned to him.

"And to say I have to find a proper wife for him," he confessed to Eddard. "I don't know. I really don't know, Ned."

"Can't we just wait the end of this battle to brood over the potential matches? I'm tired of negotiating and plotting."

"Don't be so childish, this is not plotting. Whoever Robert marries, there will be implications and we'd better measure them. Huge consequences."

"If we're able to win over Rhaegar."

Arryn sighed again and his display of annoyance was directed to him.

"We never lost a battle so far. We're blood-tested. We have Robert."

Eddard admitted he was right: their men put their faith in Robert and trusted their commandant so deeply their conversations about him sounded like the superstitious chatter of Northern old women. _Mayhap I'm the only one in this host who lost his faith in Robert; his oldest, closest friend, yet the only one who doesn't believe in him._

* * *

Eddard was with the Northern forces, as usual, when he saw Mors Umber losing both his sons. He watched this man, a seasoned warrior belonging to the faithful House Umber, sinking to his knees, hiding tears behind a torrent of insults and swearwords. A royalist knight pierced the chest of the eldest boy and several bolts stopped the youngest as he was charging on his garron.

They went on, despite the heat, despite the tiredness that overwhelmed them and made the rattling of steel against plate unbearable. On the riverbanks, there were corpses, dead horses and forgotten weapons everywhere. Then, there were bodies floating on the Green Fork, drifting slowly with the current, cloaks billowing with the water and the gusts of wind, mimicking the sails, turning them in derisory boats.

Rumors spread quicker than he thought on a battlefield; when Ser Lyn Corbray led a charge against the Dornishmen and broke them, they learned the news immediately, even if they were on the opposite side of the rebel host. However, everyone's attention got back to the Trident, precisely to the ford where peasants and tradesmen used to cross with their goods, a place that was part of the battlefield, that day.

"Robert is facing Rhaegar!" one of the Manderlys shouted. "They're fighting in the water."

He had no time to think about it or to worry about Robert, though. Ser Barristan Selmy and a group of men who had survived the Battle of the Bells resisted them fiercely. Ned tightened his grip on the pommel of his swords and parried the blows of the Crownlands knight in front of him before countering. The knight was bathed in sweat and Ned thought he was just as disheveled as him. He nevertheless kept on swinging his sword, waiting for his enemy to get tired, but the knight, whoever he was, didn't give up. They avoided a dead horse, his opponent leaped over a wounded man who feebly asked for help, and their dance went on, regardless of their ragged breath, regardless of Eddard's heart beating wildly.

"Are you the Stark boy?" the knight finally asked him.

"I'm Lord Eddard Stark," he replied, before realizing it was the first time he introduced himself this way.

All of a sudden, Ice felt more real in his hands and his next blow was stronger, making the knight dizzy.

"Son of Lord Rickard Stark." The ancient sword hit the royalist's thigh and the man winced in pain. "Lady Lyanna Stark's brother."

A cry escaped the knight's lips when Ice dug into his abdomen and his longsword hit the ground with a thud. Eddard heard a cracking noise, while they both panted and braced themselves as hard as they could, holding the sword – Eddard's hands on the hilt, the knight's bloodied fingers on the blade – and after a never-ending wait, the man gave up and collapsed on the grass. Ned had to start over to pull off the valyrian steel from his midsection and he finally looked around him, out of breath, wondering how long he could go on like this.

He didn't see any royalist at first – except two dozen who were already dead and lay on the riverbank. The Northerners he was with crowded themselves around a mounted boy who served House Baratheon, then Jon Umber caught a sight of him and called Eddard. He ran to the group.

"Lord Stark!" the mounted youth exclaimed, pulling the reins of his restless horse. He must have shouted and screamed for hours, for his voice was hoarse and croaky. "It's over, m'lord! Robert killed Rhaegar."

Eddard didn't reply and let the Northerners around him rejoice themselves; he was mulling over the man's last words. _Robert killed Rhaegar._ He couldn't realize what it meant and all the consequences. _Robert killed Rhaegar._ His friends voices were muffled, barely audible as if he was underwater; an unusual grin enlightened Rickard Karstark's face while all the Northerners exulted. Jon Umber wiped the mix of blood and sweat covering his forehead; Eddard could read on his curling lips that Umber was saying something but he couldn't guess what. _Rhaegar is dead._ His thoughts went back to the Tourney and to Lyanna.

* * *

As far as he remembered, he had never really trusted Roose Bolton, though he couldn't say where this wariness come from. Of course, the man had once implied he loved the tradition of the first night and some people reported with a frightened look he demanded that the peasant girls spend their wedding night in his keep of Dreadfort – but some of the Mountain clans had kept the same brutish tradition as well. That was the kind of stories Benjen and Lyanna told themselves on long stormy nights, shivering next to a big fireplace. _Is it something about his eyes?_ Eddard couldn't tell, but when Howland confessed him he didn't like Bolton either, his friend's intuition strengthened his opinion on his Bannerman. _At least, I have one good reason to distrust him now._

Ser Barristan Selmy had been severely wounded near the end of the battle and, as he was a well-known member of the Kingsguard, Robert could have commanded to finish him off – Bolton would have volunteered, Eddard was sure about that – or he could have decided to let him die. Bolton had incited Robert to kill Selmy, whereas Eddard had spoken out against that possibility, reminding Robert of the knight's numerous feats of arms.

They were in Robert's tent and Robert was lying on some bedroll his squire had put on the ground. He was wounded, after his single combat with Rhaegar and though he would heal soon, the after-effects of the battle made him look as weak as a child. The maester, a youth hardly escaped from the Citadel, was tending his wounds, eliciting a few swearwords from time to time; Bolton and Eddard glared at each other and sharpened their arguments. After another plea, Eddard convinced Robert to let Selmy live but it was Robert himself who chose to send him the maester as soon as his own wounds would be tended. Roose Bolton's cold pale eyes glistened with anger; he swallowed his pride, wished Robert a speedy recovery and left.

"The supercilious Lord of Dreadfort," Robert commented, wincing as he tried to lean on his elbows. He soon gave up, and collapsed on his pallet.

"Don't you think he's pretty cheeky?" Eddard complained, barely containing his anger. "He contradicted me as if I was his peer. I'm not his peer."

Despite his condition, Robert gave a hint of a shrug and repressed a smile.

"I'm sorry but he's your Bannerman," he said, pretending to lecture Eddard. "As the Warden of the North, it's your job to make Bolton obey."

Robert's slight frowning was so funny Ned couldn't help chuckle.

"You should be proud, Ned. I thought Bolton was some cold-blooded animal, but you pissed him off in a way he almost showed his emotions."

Ned cackled again. _Let's do this. Let's laugh when he makes a jape. We'll stay friends as long as we content ourselves with mirth, with the mere surface of things. I shouldn't delve into the essential with him, or we would argue instantly._ He left Robert with the persistent feeling he had already lost his friend.

* * *

The smallfolk began to wade in the ford as the body count rose and as maesters hurried themselves on the battlefield, trying to help those who still could be saved. In the meanwhile, the rebels mourned their dead. To Eddard's great astonishment, the story about Robert and Rhaegar's single combat had spread in the countryside and people kept saying Robert's war-hammer had destroyed the Crown Prince's breastplate, sending the rubies adorning his armor in the water. On his way to Robert's tent, Eddard stopped and watched them as they trudged in the muddy water, breeches rolled up to their knees, scrutinizing the river bed but he doubted they could find anything else than human bodies or discarded weapons.

Arryn turned back and called him.

"We shouldn't make him wait, Ned. There is news from King's Landing, I think."

Eddard sighed but Arryn's reproachful tone didn't give him the choice; he followed him with a preoccupied air, wondering what the news could be. A negotiation with King Aerys seemed very unlikely, let alone a surrender. When they entered Robert's tent, he was still on his bedroll, leaning against a heap of furs in replacement of pillows and a bandage half covered his broad chest. Robert greeted them, told them to sit on the stools displayed by his squire then got straight to the point.

"We can't waste time," he announced. "Rhaegar's death doesn't mean the end of this war; as long as the king's bony ass is sitting on the Iron Throne..."

_What about Lyanna?_

"Anyway, ravens arrived early this morning and here are the news. Rhaella and his son are on their way to Dragonstone. However, Elia of Dorne and her children are still in the Red Keep. Aerys ordered preparations throughout King's Landing."

"What kind of preparations?"

"We don't know," Robert replied, heaving a sigh. "That's my point. We can't stay here any longer. And... I received news from the Westerlands. Tywin Lannister gathered his host and is heading to the capital. No need to say that Aerys begged for his help."

"It couldn't have been worse," Arryn said, getting on his feet and pacing back and forth.

"I heard that Aerys had asked for his help weeks ago," Robert went on, "and this Lannister bastard had turned a deaf ear but... it sounds like he changed his mind. We need to stop them. If Tywin arrives in King's Landing before us, we're fucked up. If the remains of the royal army and the Lannister host can use the preparations Aerys already made, we're fucked up."

Robert ran his fingers through his brown hair and stared at Eddard.

"You're the one in charge, now. This fucking maester says I won't be able to ride before a few days and we can't wait this long. You'll command the host, Ned."

_Command the host. Be in charge._ His head was pounding.

After a while, after the urge of shouting and protesting that he was not qualified for all this stopped tormenting him, he pondered on Robert's decision and realized leading the host had an advantage. _A tremendous advantage, as a matter of fact. _As long as he would be in charge, Eddard wouldn't allow any unnecessary violence.

* * *

**Jon**

He had always loved storms.

As a child, back in Griffin's Roost, he used to climb in one of the towers to watch the waves crashing against the red stone cliffs. _Not the highest tower, the one that overhangs the bay. Diving from its balcony would kill anyone; jumping from there means a quick death on the rocks spattered by white-crested waves._ He could stay all night long, listening to the howling wind and staring at the rough waters. There would be a ship, occasionally, rather a cog or a galley than another type of boat, desperately fighting to resist the elements, waiting for the lull. Sometimes, the ship would win. Sometimes not. _It's called the Shipbreaker Bay, after all._

The Shipbreaker Bay had always fascinated him and since the day he had left Griffin's Roost to become a squire in King's Landing, he had missed the storms as much as one would miss a member of his family. _The same show starting over every time the wind rose, but I never got sated._ He loved the wind disrupting the flight of the birds daring enough to fly on these nights and the rain lashing his face.

When the storm broke at daytime, it could be even better, with the greyish skies taking a dark blue color, grey slate or purple, almost as black as ink. He loved to watch the sky clouding over, taking the darkest hues, as the claps of thunder echoed in the bay; when he looked at the stormy sky, it changed by the minute, always surprising him with all the possible color range of greys and blues. Lightning came as a glorious hero, when he least expected it and sent shivers down his spine.

He had always loved storms and this one, turning the Narrow Sea in a chaos of waves and winds, tossing the carrack about, shaking its mast and shattering the sails, was his first real storm since he left his father's castle. Jon had seen storms in King's Landing, of course, but it was never the same when he watched them from the shelter the large balconies of the Red Keep provided. From his apartments, he could barely glimpse at the sea. _A storm without the sight of waves crashing against the shore or against a boat is not a real storm._

No, he didn't get the opportunity to watch a storm since he left Griffin's Roost when he was mere child. The years he spent in the shadow of his prince were like a long lull, a calmness that only ended with his dismissal and his exile. If he was as devout as he was during his childhood, he could believe the gods had chosen to remind him this truth by sending a storm that made the ship rock and creak. Thus, the storms he had watched from the tower of Griffin's Roost and this one marked the duration of his years spent by Rhaegar.

The panic striking a part of the crew and all the other passengers left Jon indifferent; they didn't understand, they were not able to catch the beauty of the storm. A cloud as black as night was right above the upper deck of the _Laughing Lady_, right above his head, bringing a pouring rain. Jon's clothes and hair were already soaked by the previous rain shower and the waves spattering everything that was not sheltered in a cabin. He watched the storm with a feverish gaze, stared at the rough waters hungrily, as if finding again one of his childhood memories could soothe his pain and mend his broken heart.

* * *

Among the few passengers of the _Laughing Lady_, he felt like an anomaly rather than a foreigner. There was not a single person he could talk to. _But do I really want to talk?_ One was a red priest, on his way to Pentos; two were tradesmen and the wine they sold offered him the opportunity of talking five minutes with them, no more. The last one was a Bravosi sellsword, and Jon didn't want to discuss with him either. His past built a wall between him and the passengers, as high as the wall existing between him and the people he would meet in Essos; he therefore stayed silent and paced the upper deck under the crew's curious gaze, until Pentos was in sight.

_A different continent. A different life. Is it a life worth fighting for?_

In the Bay of Pentos, the waters were perfectly still and the carrack seemed to slide on the their iridescent surface. A thud and the sensation that the deck gave way under his feet announced they landed. When the captain shouted that they could come off the boat, he didn't react immediately and remained leaning on the rail. Coming off and setting foot upon this unknown land almost frightened him. _Because I don't know what I'm going to find. No, it's worse: I don't care about what I'm going to find._

He sighed, went to his cabin, took his cloak and his purse before asking a ship's boy to carry the chest containing his belongings. Even that simple question, _'Could you carry this chest?'_ sounded weird. He had always had someone to serve him, to take care of the most simple and boring tasks; now that he was no longer the Lord of Griffin's Roost, no longer the third Hand of King Aerys, he didn't know if he could keep his old habits.

The ship's boy nevertheless followed him with the chest, puffing and panting, put it down on the cobbled pier and left him wordlessly. Dazzled by the pentoshi sun, Jon shielded his eyes with his hand. The wharfs were crowded as the _Laughing Lady_ was not the only ship unloading; sailors, tradesmen and porters hurried themselves from the boats to the warehouses.

Jon decided he needed to quench his thirst before thinking of anything else; carrying his chest himself, he went to a tavern, took a room for the night to come and sat on a bench, alone with a jug of Pentoshi amber. _Might as well get used to the local wine._

Inside the tavern, everything was different from Westerosi manners; the building in itself was different, higher and lighter than what he knew, the maids looked more like slaves, with their bronze collars, the language had nothing to do with the Common Tongue. He noticed the customers used different languages, which was rather normal in a harbor like Pentos.

Keeping a habit he had gained a few years ago, when he occasionally ventured to Flea Bottom, he sat in a corner, his back to the wall. On his left, three sailors had a heated discussion; two of them, with their olive skin and their use of bastard Valyrian, were most likely Pentoshi. The third one, a slim youth hiding his freckled face behind dull blond hair, made them repeat everything they said. Jon finally understood the third sailor was from Westeros; his Pentoshi friends kept him informed about his homeland. Despite his shortcomings in high Valyrian and his lack of practice since the age of five-and-ten, Jon noticed they repeated the valyrian word for 'battle' and heard the name 'Rhaegar'. Hesitating, he emptied his cup, the Pentoshi wine leaving a taste of plums and sour blackberries on his tongue.

"Are you from Westeros?" he shouted across to the blond sailor.

The man turned slightly to him and a smile crept over his freckled face.

"You're Westerosi too?" the sailor exclaimed, without concealing his enthusiasm. "'Thought I couldn't find someone speaking the Common Tongue in this damn place!"

"Where are you from?"

"White Harbor, m'lord."

_A bloody Northerner._ The sailor left the Pentoshi men and planted himself in front of him. Jon gestured to the seat across him and the man sat instantly. He noticed they were of an age.

"I'm not a lord." His tone was adamant enough to prevent any further question.

The sailor frowned, but soon regained his cheerful smile.

"You like this city?" he asked Jon.

"I don't know yet, I just landed. I was on the _Laughing Lady_, but the journey was long enough to make me wonder about what's going on in Westeros."

"My friends are both sailors on the _White Star_ and they arrived at the same time, though their ship is quicker than yours and didn't stop over. Heard your boat faced a big storm? It didn't help, since-"

"Do they have fresh news from the Seven Kingdoms?" Jon said, too impatient not to cut off the sailor.

"They do. Before they set sail, they heard about the rebellion. There was a battle at the Green Fork of the Trident."

"Who won?"

The sailor leaned forward, as if he was confessing a secret.

"Seven Hells, I still don't believe it, but Mello says it's true and Gods know, he speaks the Common Tongue quite well..."

"What happened?" Jon asked, loosing his temper.

At that moment, the sailor's gaze changed as if he had finally understood what kind of man Jon could be.

"Prince Rhaegar commanded the royal army and he faced Robert," the sailor said flatly. "And Robert killed Rhaegar."

Jon didn't move, nor reply anything. His body felt suddenly numb and he didn't protest when the sailor asked if he could have some of his Pentoshi amber. He saw the man pouring wine and drinking in one gulp, then getting on his feet and leaving him. He couldn't say for how long he stayed like this, perfectly still on his bench, before going upstairs and collapsing on his bed.

Lying flat on the sagging mattress, he stared at the ceiling and tried to give meaning to the news. When Elia had left his apartments after his dismissal, he had understood he would never meet Rhaegar again. The realization had been terribly painful, but he had had the whole crossing to accept this idea. He could still harbor the hope that, one day, after Aerys' death, Rhaegar would rule the Seven Kingdoms and ask for him. Rhaegar was not good at making people happy – Elia's unfathomable sadness and his own broken heart evidenced Rhaegar's failure with the ones who loved him – but he was loyal. The prince wouldn't forget Jon had chosen to stay and fight when he had offered him to go back to Griffin's Roost.

Now that Rhaegar was dead, the faintest hopes had disappeared. As long as he was alive, his heart contained a complete range of emotions, from anger to jealousy, from melancholy to yearning; Rhaegar wasn't by his side, but he was _somewhere_. His death left a void, huge and cold. There was nothing to fill the deep hole he felt in his chest. _Maybe the news are false, maybe it's some gossip the rebels repeat to undermine Aerys' power._ Denial tempted Jon for a while, but he knew the sailor was right.

Images churned in his dizzy head: Rhaegar's harp and his fleet-fingered playing, Rhaegar's expressions when they practiced fencing, his habits and a substantial amount of details. The precise color of his hair, the shape of his hands, the way the muscles of his arm jutted out when he held his sword; all these trifles people generally ignored or overlooked were carved in his memory.

However, one memory floated on the ocean of the tiny details about Rhaegar; one moment, fragile and fleeting, that would never sink in the depths of oblivion. Whatever storms and gales life had in store for Jon, no wave would engulf that instant.

They were six-and-ten, no more, and for some reason, Arthur Dayne wasn't there; among the lordlings gravitating towards Rhaegar, Jon was the only worthy opponent. They had spent the day training and fighting. Rhaegar's other companions had left the Red Keep's armory, whether they got tired or they were bored. On the bare walls, ancient weapons were the only ornament; there was room enough for two dozen young men practicing sword fight.

As they were alone and fighting once more, Rhaegar forced him to go backwards across the room, just for fun, then let him counter his blows so they set off back the way they had come. After going backward and forward several times, they were both exhausted but it was Jon who yielded first and fell down. He remembered the cold floor below him, the specks of dust under his clammy hands. Putting his sword aside and still towering above him, Rhaegar graciously offered his hand; Jon grabbed his wrist with a mischievous smile and made him fall. When Rhaegar collapsed on him, they both burst out laughing.

A sort of haziness wrapped up what followed; in high spirits, they couldn't get on their feet, so they stayed there for a while, laughing, Rhaegar half protesting about Jon's trick. In the end, the prince shifted and lay down beside him, repeating how worn out he was. A few chuckles, coming from one or the other interrupted the silence every so often and Jon, because he felt so good that day and above all because he seldom was alone with Rhaegar, decided it would be now or never.

Leaning on his elbow and turning to Rhaegar, he looked at him, memorizing his facial features as they were that evening.

"What?" the prince asked, blowing a strand of blond hair out of his face.

Jon didn't answer, leaned over him and kissed his lips. It was not some deep kiss, given by a feisty young man who couldn't restrain his loving surge. His lips met Rhaegar's and gently pressed them before he pulled away. It didn't last long, a heartbeat at the most.

Rhaegar neither protested nor responded to that kiss; he stayed perfectly still on the floor, and Jon wondered long after about the prince's stolidity. At some point, he decided that Rhaegar was so conscious of his beauty, of the worship he provoked, he accepted all the tributes paid to him, whether they were compliments or kisses, whether they come from men or women. It was his fate, or perhaps his curse: he could be the Prince Who Was Promised, or at least, he would father him. That idea turned him into a different person, apart from the rest: he aroused so much expectations he could only receive tokens of love.

Sometimes, it seemed to Jon that there was a never-ending row of beggars in front of the prince; some praised his qualities, others idolized him or just demanded his attention and Jon was among them. _A beggar among so many others. Elia is a fool if she believes she's different from the rest; she's just another mendicant and Rhaegar can't – or couldn't – give her what she's asking for. Is the Stark girl different from us? Who knows? He waged war for her, after all._

Jon didn't need to meet Rhaegar's eyes to know he had lost his prince when his lips brushed his; it was over. Things would never be the same between them. After the armory incident, there was a distance, a coldness in the way the prince behaved and for months, Rhaegar always managed not to be completely alone with him.

Jon remembered how jealousy tormented him the day Rhaegar married Elia of Dorne. _Only a Targaryen would be worthy of him. And that frail brown-haired girl, with her simpering airs..._ Elia erupted with joy after the ceremony, and her happiness, coming from a girl everyone extolled for her good manners, looked like an indelicacy. Jon was so jealous he focused on her and on her radiant smile instead of noticing Rhaegar was far from exulting with her. He seemed pleased, of course, but not more pleased than he was when people expressed their admiration for him. Jon should have discerned the prince's restraint, his polite reserve. _Elia should have seen it too. We were both fools. We should have known. I suppose she was more stupid than I was, for I always knew he would never belong to me. I never deluded myself. Elia lost everything, now. And the rebels are coming for her. For her, and for the children._

* * *

**Sandor**

He didn't try to drink after his terrible headache. Maybe he should have; Gregor's presence never very far from him drove Sandor mad and, night after night, he had bad dreams. _Would it be different, if I was drunk?_ If someone had asked him to tell what he saw behind his closed eyelids, he couldn't describe the dreadful images; he usually didn't remember them, but he knew for sure he woke up with a start every night.

Banefort, who slept beside him, would grunt something about him being too noisy before going back to sleep instantly, leaving Sandor alone with his blurred nightmare and ragged breath. He knew he had to be quiet, since Tywin was lying in the next tent, so he just wrapped his arms around his knees and cradled himself, like the big, oversized boy he was.

Sometimes, after he had had one of these terrifying dreams, he questioned his ability to fight on a battlefield: if the images churning in his feverish head frightened him so much, how could he behave like the warrior Tywin wanted him to be? _I don't want to be a craven_. However he knew he wasn't like Serrett who had pissed his pants when Sandor had put his blade on the squire's throat. He knew he was different from the swaggering squires who screamed and wept as soon as they saw their enemy; it was just his brother's presence that panicked and infuriated him at the same time.

One of the nights the Lannister host spent in the countryside, by the road leading to King's Landing, Sandor found out that taking care of his mount soothed his nerves, though it never prevented him from having nightmares; whenever he brushed the smooth, shining flanks of his bay horse, he breathed easier, as if the animal's equanimity rubbed off on him. Removing pebbles from the horseshoes required all his concentration because he didn't want to get kicked and eventually he listened to the horse's even breathing until he felt sleepy.

* * *

They had been on the road for two weeks when a knight belonging to House Drox stormed in Tywin's tent, right after Sandor brought supper. The fair-haired man had a massive chest contrasting with his short twisted legs. On his gaunt face, Sandor could read both thrill and apprehension as he held out a scroll to Tywin. Tywin's brow raised when he saw the knight's unexpected arrival disturbing his meal and he slowly wiped his mouth with a white cloth, before grabbing the message and unfolding it.

"Ser Gilbert," Tywin said flatly.

Tension filled the tent as the Lord of Casterly Rock took his time to read the scroll; while the knight probably feared to bring bad news, Banefort and Sandor readied themselves to answer Tywin's orders – because a raven coming rather late could only deliver a significant message. Banefort strategically drew closer to the writing set enclosed in a tiny chest, in case that Tywin would answer to the message's sender and Sandor prepared to hurry himself between the tents, if his liege lord wanted him to fetch someone or something.

"Banefort!" Tywin called, eliciting a smug smile on Banefort's lips. "Quill and ink, please."

Sandor felt disappointed as Banefort moved past him, prouder than ever. A look at his master allowed him to notice Tywin's uncustomary agitation._What did he learn? Is it something that could change his plans?_

"Clegane," Tywin said, after a while. "I want Ser Gerion here, as soon as possible."

Banefort fumed when Sandor left. The boy ran between the tents, avoided campfires and camp followers hanging about and finally reached Gerion's tent, where his squire told him to go away, but Sandor knew better than yielding to a stupid squire who wanted to impress him. Hearing their quarrel, Gerion showed up and followed Sandor after chiding his own squire.

"What is it?" he asked Sandor and as usual, the boy could only shake his head as they hurried to Tywin's tent.

When they came in, Ser Gilbert was gone and Banefort stood by Tywin, pouting, while his master wrote a message. The Lord of Casterly Rock dismissed both squires. Banefort's disappointment was noticeable; instead of joining his friends like he used to do on such occasions, he stayed by the tent and tried to listen to the Lannister siblings' conversation.

"What are you fucking doing?" Sandor whispered.

It was dark now and he wondered where was Talbert, the drummer. Maybe they could find some quiet place to eat some dry sausage and look at the stars.

"I want to know what's going on!" Banefort said with impatience. "Something puzzled Tywin and I want to know what it is."

Sandor remained perfectly still and pricked up his ears. In the darkness, no one could see them; should they get caught, there was no dungeon here to chastise their indiscretion. Tywin's voice exuded restlessness and Sandor could picture him striding in the exiguous tent.

"... said there was a battle in the Trident. Rhaegar himself commanded the royal forces. He's dead."

"But how?" Gerion nearly shouted in disbelief.

"It seems that Robert killed him. A single combat, that what the cocky Lord of Storm's End likes."

"Can't be true," Banefort whispered to himself. "Can't be true. I'll be knighted next year and Prince Rhaegar_ has to dub me. _Just like he did with your brother."

Sandor shushed him with a furious glare; now that they were listening to Tywin and Gerion's conversation, he wanted to know more.

"What are you going to do, now?" Gerion asked his brother.

There was a long silence filled with tension and the waiting gave Sandor enough time to go over the few options his liege lord had: stick to his promise and help the king despite the risk of losing everything or go back to Casterly Rock with his tail between his legs. _None is satisfactory._

"I'll tell you when we'll reach the gates."

Tywin's voice had regained its softness and its typical hint of condescension.

"Which gates?"

"King's Landing's gates, of course, the Lion Gate. Now, where is my squire?"

Without a second thought, Banefort rushed to the tent's opening, while Sandor didn't move.

"You're pretty quick, Banefort," Tywin commented. "Were you listening to this conversation?"

By Banefort's confused silence, Sandor could tell the knight-to-be was ashamed of his own foolishness.

* * *

_I'll tell you when we'll reach the gates_, Tywin had said. At the end of the Goldroad, the Lannister host had stopped right in front of the Lion Gate, and the men, raddled after their long journey and exhausted by the oppressive heat, had almost collapsed on the ground. Some foot soldiers had fought to shelter themselves from the sun under the meager trees and finally, a bunch of knights – including a rather nervous Gregor – chased them to claim ownership of the available shade, irrespective of the sunstroke affecting some of the weakest members of the host.

Until now, Tywin didn't utter a single word about his plans and how they would rescue the king. Sandor desperately tried to gather his memories: his father had given him some lessons about strategy and warfare. However, what he saw puzzled him. _We should be inside to protect the king and withstand the rebels' attack. We should use the high walls and prepare ourselves to a potential siege. Mayhap we should tell the inhabitants who can't fight they have to go and come back when everything is over. We need more food and water to resist until those bloody rebels lift the siege..._

The Lannister host, to his great surprise, didn't prepare anything. Tywin, who he considered to be the most smart and far-sighted man he had ever met, had admitted in front of him they had run out of bread and wine, and that observation didn't seem to startle him.

Thus, they had stopped in front of the huge gate, whose large opening mimicked a wild beast's mouth; two rows of stone lions, bigger than full size, stood guard on each side of the road. Sandor wondered why the doors weren't open yet; they had come to offer their help, after all, but the thick wooden panels remained closed, their dark color reminding Sandor of the threatening mouth of an animal, ready to swallow its prey. Tywin's orders roused him from his thoughtful drowsiness: the Lord of Casterly Rock wanted him and Banefort to prepare his tent.

_How long are we supposed to wait here? _As he unfolded the thick fabric with Banefort, he couldn't help pondering over the situation. Once the canvas tent was ready, Tywin gave out a sigh and came in, then told his squires to fetch his brother Gerion and the lords of all the noble houses of the Westerlands. While Tywin gave his orders, Banefort and Sandor waited outside, without pricking up their ears, this time: the sun made them blink and anyone could have seen two eavesdroppers in the morning light. The Bannermen all left the tent with a strange expression on their face. _Bewilderment? Anticipation?_ Sandor couldn't tell but it looked like they knew a secret the rest of them – squires, horsemen, archers and lancers – ignored. Finally, Tywin asked for Gregor and Ser Amory Lorch.

_They're two of a kind_, Sandor mused as they entered the tent. Amory Lorch was smaller than Gregor and not half as strong, but with his bovine look and cruel eyes, he looked like the new lord of Clegane's Keep. Whatever Tywin wanted with the two young knights, it required physical strength and obedience, not wits. While he waited outside of the tent, wiping beads of sweat consistently appearing on his forehead, he caught snatches of conversation.

"... matters greatly... if you want to prove yourself... pledge of allegiance... in Robert's name..."

Despite his efforts, he couldn't hear the rest of Tywin's orders. When Gregor ducked his head to leave the tent, his back tensed immediately; his brother stopped on the threshold and turned around to ask one more question.

"When will they open the gates?" he rasped.

This time, Tywin's voice was perfectly audible, for he didn't need to withhold the answer.

"The rebels are hot on our heels. Soon, I hope."

With that, Tywin called Banefort and Sandor, soon they found themselves face to face with the knights. Sandor held his brother's gaze and finally, after an endless silence, it was Gregor who looked down at him then spat, while Amory Lorch gave out a raucous laughter.

"The Clegane siblings," Banefort commented with a smirk, "the exemplification of brotherly love."

* * *

He still didn't understand why his brother and Amory Lorch wore their plate and had their horses caparisoned as if they readied themselves for a tourney, nor why the two knights were waiting in front of the Lion Gate, despite the heat. When Tywin told Banefort to join his house, and ordered Sandor to bring his heavy plate armor, he was still puzzled. _Why does he want heavy plate? The fancy armor would be more appropriate for an entry in the capital._ When he brought the last mailed glove, Tywin locked eyes with him and he realized his liege lord was about to say something important, so he froze.

In the dim light, Tywin's face had a curious expression: determination, thrill, hope. _And maybe a hint of nervousness, like someone who bet his fortune on the throw of the dice._ His green gaze wandered on Sandor's figure, appraising the width of his shoulders and his muscles.

"This is an important moment, boy," he said softly after a long silence. "Your first battle. Though it won't be on a proper battlefield, but who cares?"

Sandor nodded slightly, wondering what Tywin would tell him next and he deftly fastened the mailed glove.

"We're not going to protect this city, we're not going to rescue the king. I hope you didn't fancy yourself saving Aerys' life, because it's not what I have in mind. As we are talking, the lords of all the noble houses of the Westerlands gather their men to tell them we're going to take this city, but you don't belong to a noble house and your brother has other fish to fry, so here I am. We'll sack King's Landing and take possession of the Red Keep before these rebel hicks show up."

Sandor felt suddenly dizzy; from the day he split Banefort's lip and got lectured by Tywin, he had thought his overlord would help King Aerys; he had pictured Tywin and Gerion – and perhaps himself – receiving the king's thanks, before the court. _So all this was bullshit?_ The efforts he had made while training in Casterly Rock, the swordplay lessons given by his father, the fact that he was born in a keep and therefore was meant to fight, all this had to end up in the sack of a city. He felt betrayed, even if he was not the king who swindled by false promises, even if he stood beside the traitor. If he ever noticed his inner turmoil, Tywin didn't say a word about it.

"Do they have soldiers, inside?" Sandor heard himself ask.

"They're civilians, they're not supposed to defend themselves." His tone was cold, emotionless. "They have some soldiers," he added, "but I doubt they will be a threat. You'll stay with Ser Gerion, though. You're an investment and I hate losing my investments."

Under the outward detachment and cold humor, Sandor realized Tywin was more concerned by his safety than he thought. However, he didn't care about Tywin's games to develop rivalry between him and Banefort, he was tired of his liege lord's paternalistic attitude. _We are all pawns he can play with or discard as he pleases: Gregor, the host, myself, the people of this city, even the king._

"Why?" he asked, and his angry tone made any precision unnecessary.

A despising smile curled up Tywin's lips. With his heavy plate armor, he looked more threatening than ever.

"Where will you go, Clegane, if I send you away? If you want my protection, there's but one rule to remember. Never question my orders."

He deliberately stressed the last words, staring Sandor down.

"Ser Gregor never questions my orders," he said, slowly shaking his head.

Sandor wondered what it meant, what could be these orders his brother had received and the interrogation sent shivers down his spine.

A few minutes later, every member of the Lannister host was ready for the impending battle, though the lords had told them to hide their armor or their weapons under their cloaks. They all held tightly the thick fabric that looked incongruous under the warm sun, sweating and cursing in an undertone. On top of the high walls, on either side of the Lion Gate, sentries looked down at them, unaware of the danger. _Gold Cloaks, most likely. Bloody fools_, Sandor thought, as he walked toward Gerion. _As soon as the gates open, you'll be dead men. _Gerion was tense, his long cloak concealing his sword hand already on the hilt; he gave Sandor a curt nod, whispered he should always stay by his side and stared at the closed gates.

Sandor spun on his heels; the lords of all the noble houses of the Westerlands had gathered their men around them, and if the lords were mounted, most of the horsemen and knights were on foot, to make their progression easier in the narrow streets of King's Landing. Even that detail didn't seem to startle the sentinels standing on the rampart walk.

Finally, he heard men shouting on the high walls and around the Lion Gate; then, after a few heartbeats, a loud, creaking noise revealed the sentries had removed the bar locking the heavy door: a shiver of anticipation spread across the host. Sandor's mouth went dry when the hinges slowly grated; the dark wooden panels moved inch by inch, showing the dirty cobblestones paving the broad street, a foot soldier, shyly looking at them and some inhabitants, ready to welcome their saviors.

With a deliberate slowness, Tywin's mare went forward, moved past Gregor and Ser Amory Lorch, and finally cross the Lion Gate. As his mounted figure was still under the arches of the gate and without turning around on his saddle, Tywin raised his right hand and motioned his men in. It was small gesture and the sentinels didn't even notice it. However, Sandor knew it would seal these men's fate and beyond that, the fate of all the men, women and children who had sheltered themselves behind the high walls.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

**Warning for graphic violence and mentions of rape, murder and child murder. If you feel uncomfortable with these themes, you should probably not read this chapter. **

**Once more, I'd like to thank Underthenorthernlights for her beta-reading skills and her patience. Your advice on this long chapter was priceless, dear!**

**Describing events we already know from the books would have no point, so I deliberately skipped the scene when Eddard finds Jaime sitting on the Iron Throne. I tried to 'fill the blanks' and to write about things that happened before or after. As this chapter has been the most difficult to write so far – because of the violence of the Sack and because I wanted to follow the canon as much as I could – any feedback will be appreciated!**

* * *

**Jon**

Varys had advised him to join the Golden Company – the only company of sellswords worthy of Jon, according to the eunuch – and so he did.

After learning Rhaegar's death, he had drunk himself into stupors and stayed in the cramped room of the tavern. From the rotten window frame, he heard the distant sound of the harbor; though he had shuttered the window, he could tell the sun was coming up and down thanks to the shades that lengthened and shortened on the dusty wooden floor. That was how he realized he had spent three whole days in the tavern.

Jon wouldn't come back to Westeros, most likely, nor talk to his prince again, nor see the lands his father had given him. He toyed with the idea of dying there – his dagger was sharp enough for that purpose – but suicide was never an option for the Conningtons. _I'm still a member of House Connington, after all, even if my dear cousin Ronald now rules my father's lands. For lack of anything better, I can still cling to the customs and values I respected when I was a child. _Dying sword in hand was right, though, and the numerous skirmishes and battles the Golden Company fought every year offered him the possibility of a death fitting his own moral code.

On the morning of the fourth day, he rose from his bed, ordered a bath, got dressed and left the tavern. He bought a mare – the old animal had known better days, but he didn't want to waste all his gold – and asked the first Pentoshi he saw where lived the man whose name Varys had written on a scroll of paper.

_Illyrio Mopatis._ The name felt strange on his tongue and Jon wasn't sure he didn't mispronounce it. The man he had talked to opened wide eyes when he heard Mopatis' name and almost bowed in front of Jon, quitting the condescending attitude he had a few heartbeats before, when he had seen a foreigner mounted on a weary horse. With a profusion of gestures, the Pentoshi explained him he would find Illyrio Mopatis' house not very far from the palace of the Prince and Jon led his mare through the labyrinthine streets of Pentos until he asked another man who finally pointed out a stately porch that stood out against a creamy yellow high wall.

The old servant who opened the heavy door wore a bronze collar, like the maids he had seen in the tavern and like a great deal of people walking in the streets; as soon as he heard Jon stammering in High Valyrian, he answered in the Common Tongue as if welcoming Westerosi visitors was his everyday routine.

The old man led him through the gardens and inside a mansion that revealed how wealthy his host was: marble floors looked fresh under his boots, contrasting with the oppressive sun outside, and the murmuring waters of several fountains accentuated the impression of coolness. In the large room where the old servant left Jon, sunbeams played on the silken wall hangings and on the mahogany furniture. After a few minutes enjoying the scenery where Illyrio Mopatis met his guests, Jon decided the man was a Pentoshi version of Lord Varys: a person who had connections everywhere, eager to show his wealth and refined tastes.

He hardly knew anything about Illyrio Mopatis; at the most he did remember he was a former sellsword who had married the Prince's cousin. He was therefore a respectable man with a less than humble ancestry, like most of the sellswords born in Essos. As a matter of fact, when Mopatis came in and welcomed him with a broad grin, Jon felt both the social success and the difficult childhood; the buxom figure proved he didn't need to rent his sword anymore but the way he mindlessly touched the golden rings circling his plump fingers in a self-reassuring gesture revealed his fear of losing everything he had worked for.

"Lord Varys' friends are always welcomed in my house!" Mopatis bellowed, opening his arms in a theatrical way.

Jon thought it was useful to remind him he didn't come for trivial matters and the situation in Westeros had nothing to do with an amiable farce.

"I guess a well-informed man like you heard the news," he said rather coldly.

The man's wide smile disappeared from his round face and he gestured to a bench seat invaded by an army of silken cushions. Jon sat and Mopatis settled down on the armchair across him.

"Of course, I've heard of Prince Rhaegar's tragic death," he answered softly.

_Is it his foreign accent or does he feign compassion? I'm not sure I like his voice._

"Lord Varys probably told you I would give you the latest news from Westeros as well as we would discuss our plans."

_Our plans? What in Seven Hells is he talking about?_ Mopatis must have noticed Jon's furrowed brow for he explained immediately what he meant.

"As an old friend of Varys, I offered him my help. I'm ready to welcome here any member of the Targaryen family, lest their lives were in danger."

"Well, their lives are in danger. The Battle of the Trident was supposed to crush the rebels before they could turn to King's Landing. Now the road is open-"

"Do you think I ignore this threat? Dear Jon – may I call you Jon? – I've heard a lot about you, about your bravery, your skills... your hotheaded behavior. You made miracles on the battlefield, despite your king's lack of gratitude, but you're so ingenuous when it comes to politics. Do you know for how long Lord Varys tried to sway your king's decision about Princess Elia?"

He touched his receding hairline and ran his fingers through the blond strands covering the crown of his head; this nervous gesture made Jon wonder what Mopatis didn't tell him.

"Why doesn't the bloody Spider organize their flight from the Red Keep?" he almost shouted. "Aerys won't change his mind! There's no way out for Elia and the children, except this one: escape. Regardless of the cost."

The chuckle Illyrio Mopatis failed to repress spurred his guest's anger and Jon crossed his arms on his chest, a defiant look in his eyes.

"I"m glad Princess Elia eventually found a champion to defend herself," Mopatis taunted him.

"I don't care about Elia. I just want to keep a promise."

Staying still on the cushions and not throwing himself on the fat man sat across him required more and more efforts; Jon shifted his long legs and locked eyes with his host.

"They don't have time, I'm afraid. Send a message to Varys and tell him to organize their escape without delay. He can disguise them, have some maid take the place of Elia, whatever... I don't care. Rhaegar's children must be saved. For the sake of the Targaryen dynasty."

Mopatis ensconced himself in his armchair and stared at Jon's infuriated face for a while, with the raised eyebrow of a man who gauges his enemy. Jon leaned forward.

"Varys wants me to protect Elia and the children: fine. All he has to do is help them sneak out of the Red Keep; let me sail back to King's Landing and I'll collect them-"

"Do you ignore the meaning of banishment?" Mopatis asked him, as his rings collided with the arm rests in an impatient gesture. "As soon as you land on Westeros, you'll be a dead man!"

"Do you really think death scares me?" Jon retorted with a sarcastic half-smile.

This last remark silenced his host for a while and he touched his forked beard mindlessly before finding the proper answer.

"You'll keep your promise, Jon, and you'll help them. But right now, let Lord Varys and myself handle this. Your skills will be useful sooner or later. For the time being, you'll keep up the appearances of the jaded exiled lord and the Golden Company will provide you the cover you need. I have no doubt you'll dupe your audience with this world-weary expression I read on your face."

This flat refusal incensed Jon who nevertheless kept quiet and glared at the fat man until he took his leave.

* * *

Finding the Golden Company was not difficult, in a way. He exited Pentos and crossed the Sunrise Gate leading to the Flatlands where the sellswords' encampment was located. From that moment on, he rode east, for lack of any other indication. His mare's flanks disappeared in the waist-high grass and he believed he was lost when half a dozen horsemen surrounded him. Their impressive outfits mesmerized Jon. Two of them bore inlaid armors; the one who seemed to be their leader had an incredible sword whose handle was set with gemstones; all of them wore silken clothes and heavy torcs of gold. Pulling the reins of his restless mare, Jon remembered the tales about the Golden Company and realized that they had got hold on him before he could find them.

They probably thought of stripping him from the belongings he kept in two saddle bags bought at the same time as the mare; Jon could tell it by their curious looks and their leader's eyes appraising the weight of the leather bags lying on his horse's croup. He told them who he was, asked to talk to their commander; the men laughed and nevertheless led him to their encampment.

A sea of tents bathed in the late afternoon sun welcomed him as he arrived with horsemen on both sides. The Golden Company forces were not larger than those he had commanded in the Riverlands. Ten thousand men, the man with a jeweled sword said: knights, squires, archers. _An organization based on Westerosi hosts: nothing that will break my habits. And most of the members, even among the archers are Westerosi, as well. Still... can I stay and fight with them? Is it what I want?_ Jon knew he didn't have many options left, now that he was an exile.

The jeweled sword dismounted and told him to do so. A boy, perhaps a recruit, took the reins of their horses as they walked toward one of the strangest things Jon had ever seen; in front of a large tent of cloth-of-gold, there were pikes, hammered in the hard soil like standard poles. On top of each pike, something glimmered under the fading sun. _Seven save us, skulls,_ he realized. Gilded skulls hanged from the top of the pikes; as there were at least three or four skulls tied to each pole, they made an uncanny sound with the slightest breeze, something between the thump of bones knocking together and a dainty clang.

"Our late commanders' skulls," the jeweled sword informed Jon, with an amused smile contrasting with his gruff voice. "Ever heard of Maelys Blackfyre's skull?"

In Westeros, people whispered Maelys had killed his twin in the womb and therefore never omitted to call him 'the Monstrous' whenever they mentioned his prowess as a captain-general of the Golden Company. The second head – his dead twin's head – sprouting from his neck was horrifying enough to be an asset on the battlefield. The jewelled sword's question implied the Golden Company had found a way to make Maelys still horrifying after his death, probably by dipping the twin's head in gold and keeping it alongside the commander's skull.

"So you need those kind of trinkets to frighten your enemies?" Jon casually asked the sellsword, to show how jaded he was.

The jeweled sword burst out laughing. _He's no sucker_, Jon mused.

"A man according to my heart!" the sellsword finally replied. "Come, our Captain-General will meet you."

He first entered the tent, leaving Jon alone, enough time to admire the gilded skulls of the nearest pike so far as one can admire skulls, then let him in.

The display of material wealth inside the commander's tent couldn't be ignored, just like on the sellswords' outfits: the cloth-of-gold that shelter the leader of the Golden Company mirrored the heavy chest of ebony, the silver candelabras and the unwashed silver-gilt dishes someone had put on the thick rug as if it was some ordinary wooden bowl.

In the half-light, Jon didn't see anyone at first, then a tall figure left the darkest corner of the tent and paced toward him. The man's face was not handsome by any standards: he was jug-eared and neither his crooked jaw nor his big nose added elegance to his very common face. He made up on the fine clothes he wore: a silken doublet and, despite the heat, velvet breeches. Like his men, his hands and neck were heavy with golden ornaments. Jon thought he looked like a beggar with his boiled leather and his red stubble.

"This is Jon Connington," the jewelled sword said a bit stiffly to his commander, "Lord of Griffin's Roost, former Hand of King Aerys."

"I knew who he is," the commander retorted, staring at Jon.

"Our Captain-General, Myles Toyne," the sellsword went on.

"My enemies call me 'Blackheart'," Toyne precised, "and I go by the same name, here."

The sellsword understood his presence wasn't necessary anymore and left. The last sun rays came in by the opening of the tent and shone on the commander's rings.

"Illyrio Mopatis says you would be a fine recruit for the Golden Company," Myles Toyne began. "With your experience during Robert's Rebellion. 'One of the best warriors of Westeros,' according to Lord Varys' words."

He turned around and lowered himself to take a scroll inside the ebony chest and held it out. _Bloody Spider: whoever I talk to, they always have had a conversation with Varys before._ Myles Toyne must have noticed Jon's pout, for he asked if he disagreed with the eunuch.

"Hire me as a sellsword and you'll see," Jon retorted in a defiant tone.

Toyne chuckled and his jaw seemed even more crooked.

"As you wish. This is the shortest discussion I ever had with a recruit," he finally said.

Assuming they were done, Jon showed a clean pair of heels, but the Captain-General's hoarse voice stopped him mid-stride.

"We are all outlaws, here," he said. "Either exiles or exiles' descendants."

He had spoken matter-of-factly, yet Jon took his words as an attempt to comfort him, in the rough, uncouth style of the Golden Company's commander. Exiting the golden tent, he swept the encampment until he found a bunch of men starting a campfire; from now on, his life would be there, on this foreign land, with these men, fighting for rich cities or wealthy people instead of defending a king who had dismissed him. How he would keep his promise now that he was a sellsword, he didn't know; but he felt in his guts that as long as Rhaegar's children would be alive, he could be useful.

* * *

**Sandor**

He was among the men who immediately followed Tywin when he entered the city; Gerion and him were on foot, with a bunch of handpicked knights and a group of archers carrying crossbows. As soon as they showed up and positioned themselves on both sides of Tywin's mount, the sentries began to stiffen and to wonder what their savior, the powerful Warden of the West, wanted. On the livid faces half disappearing under old visor-less helmets, Sandor read their terror and, to his great astonishment, the fear that made one of them cling to his spear roused his own urge to fight and to destroy.

Everyone was silent in front the Lion Gate, except the inhabitants standing further in the street, ready to welcome the Lannister host, and tension filled the small square when Gregor and Ser Amory Lorch finally came on their caparisoned horses. They pulled the reins to stop near Tywin, who nodded in acquiescence.

"To the Red Keep, as I said," Tywin confirmed.

He didn't take the trouble to whisper his orders; Sandor read it as a display of his self-confidence. Tywin, at that instant, had the certainty no one could prevent him from doing as he pleased, not even the Gold Cloaks who stood in front of his mount and whose breathing was more and more erratic. Tywin's face, usually so serious, lighted up with an unwholesome joy. _He anticipates what's going to happen and he rejoices in advance. Fuck, what are those orders? Catch the king himself? No, he wouldn't have sent Gregor if he wanted to find the king in a dungeon when he'll arrive at the Red Keep. He knows exactly what my bastard of a brother does. He wants him to kill someone. Probably the king._

At that thought, he felt goosebumps on his arms and the macabre images he left Clegane's Keep with churned into his head. Ivy, ruined and slaughtered on the red tiles of the kitchens, her head resting in a black pool. His father's corpse, lying across the saddle of his black horse, tied like a dead stag at the end of the hunt. _Come on, you can handle this._ He clenched his teeth and looked away, knowing that at the end of that day he would just have another good reason to kill his brother. _When the time comes._

A sadistic smile matching the weird expression on Tywin's face spread across Gregor's lips; he spurred his horse and left, jostling a sentry who looked like he was going to shit his pants. Then Gregor and Amory Lorch were gone, leaving a wake of startled looks and screams among the inhabitants who waited for help and only saw brutish knights. _Go away, lock yourself in your houses while you still can avoid this madness._

"M'lord," one of the sentries told Tywin, his voice shaking, "Manly Stokeworth, our commander will be here soon. He wanted to welcome you per-"

"Manly Stokeworth?" Tywin repeated, looking down at the man. "Tell me about it!"

Behind him, most of the Lannister men barked the coarsest of laughters. The man who had talked to Tywin wore black breastplates with four golden disks on it; Sandor realized he could be an officer of the Gold Cloaks, probably the captain in charge of the Lion Gate. The man clad in black took a step further and glared at Tywin, though he was most likely shaking.

"I'm afraid you'll have to wait until Lord Stokeworth arrives, my lord," he said, steadying his breath.

From where he was, Sandor could only catch a glimpse at Tywin's right side, when he looked up at him. On the clean-shaved face, he saw the corner of his lips slowly pulling up in a smile.

"Jonah, is that right? When I'm done with you, Jonah," Tywin said flatly, "your wife won't be able to recognize you, but it doesn't really matter because she won't live long enough to identify your body. You see, in the end, the fact that we first met when I was the Hand of the King doesn't change anything."

Tywin drew his sword and so did all the men around Sandor. Master Symon nudged him so that he did the same. _Go away, please, don't resist_, Sandor begged silently, even though he knew his pleading was useless. Around their captain, the Gold Cloaks clang to their spears. At first, nobody moved, then Sandor noticed a young Gold Cloak who didn't stare at the Lannister men, nor at Tywin, but looked intently at his horse's chest. _Aye, that's what I would do if I had a spear._

Suddenly, a bolt burst out of the Lannister ranks and hit a Gold Cloak's head; Tywin protested, eager to know who had started the fight without waiting for his order, but it was too late. The screams threw both groups into complete and utter confusion.

Although nobody paid the young Gold Cloak any attention, Sandor abruptly shoved Master Symon to reach the reins of Tywin's horse and made him step backwards. The master-at-arms shouted, Tywin yelled and tried to get rid of Sandor's grasp, but the whinnying mount moved in the nick of time and avoided the sharp blade of the Gold Cloak. As the steel head of the spear brushed the horse's chest, a pair of stunned green eyes briefly met Sandor's before Master Symon disarmed and gutted Tywin's assailant.

Sandor held his gaze for a heartbeat, then turned to face the remaining Gold Cloaks; the sentries were already outnumbered, but when a Gold Cloak presumed that the boy who had just saved Tywin's life was too young not to be an easy target and tried to impale him with his spear, Sandor remembered the Master Symon's moves a few moments before.

He forced the Gold Cloak to parry his blows until his spear was less a weapon than a disadvantage; in front of Sandor's fury and fast blows, the man couldn't just drop it and unsheathe his sword, so he took the spear with both hands and held it like a derisory shield.

The wooden shaft wasn't hard enough, even for Sandor's blunt blade: it soon broke, leaving the Gold Cloak with a sort of useless club he waved in front of his enemy. Sandor could read the panic on the man's face, as he had read it before in the squires' gaze, back in Casterly Rock. _But today, it's not for a laugh, it's real._

The man lowered his eyes for a heartbeat, just enough time to unsheathe the sword he urgently needed and Sandor seized the occasion to dig in his abdomen. The Gold Cloak gasped, dropping his sword on the cobblestones, and put both hands on his belly in a desperate attempt to hold his bowels. Whereas the man clang onto his life, his fingers grabbing the blade so hard his knuckles went white, Sandor looked at his contorted face. The sword sank in the soft flesh, yet the Gold Cloak resisted and stood there, despite his wobbling legs.

When the shaking figure collapsed on the ground, he thought it was over before an iron grip forced him to his knees. At that point, Sandor couldn't avoid the Gold Cloak's gaze; he saw agonizing pain, then the survival instinct that pushed him to hold on his opponent as long as he could and finally, as the brown eyes glistened with tears, the simple yearning for peace and oblivion. The fingers tightly encircling Sandor's wrist let go and fell on the black breastplate. Suddenly, Sandor realized there were only a pair of glassy eyes, fixed and lifeless and a foul smell coming from the abdomen. Sandor tried to remove his blade from the man's midsection, slowly, inch by inch, as if he feared to hurt him now, and scrutinized the blade. It was red with a brown sticky substance by places: disgusted, he wiped his sword in the golden woolen cloak, leaving a brown-red stain on it.

Getting on his feet turned out to be more difficult than he thought: he staggered and felt like he couldn't glance at the dead body anymore. _But I fought him, I looked him straight in the eyes when I dug in his belly, so why is it different now? _His hands, contracted on the hilt of his sword all along their fight, suddenly ached and he found a metallic taste in his mouth. _Blood._ He lowered his eyes to the corpse lying at his feet and the memories of his conversation with the camp follower washed over him. _Look around you, boy. This is a host. They are killers. All of them. _

He glanced at his sword hand; even if he had wiped it on the cloak, both his palm and fingers were sticky, with red stains. _And I'm a killer too. What I just did makes me a killer, like them, like Gregor. _His hand looked different, all of a sudden; he knew the broad palm and the long fingers, recognized the scars, old or fresh, marking the back of his hand, and was familiar with the nails bitten and filthy but the blood dripping from the blade made it completely new to him. It wasn't his hand but a paw belonging to a soldier. _Belonging to a killer._

Gerion's hand on his shoulder startled him and Sandor spun on his heels, more than happy to turn his back to the accusing corpse. Tywin's brother had a somber expression; his eyes roamed over the squire, taking in the ragged breath, the distraught gaze and the bloodied hands.

"The heart, Clegane. Remember it, next time, and give your opponent a clean death."

Ashamed and keeping his eyes downcast, Sandor nodded.

"Come now, we're done here. Tywin is waiting for us."

When he looked up, the square was full of Lannister knights and soldiers hurrying themselves in different directions; wherever his eyes fell, dead sentries lying on the ground mimicked the one he didn't want to look at. _A killer among killers. And I can't do anything about it._ Gerion tugged his mailed arm: it was time to go.

* * *

_It all happened as if I had forgotten about the host and the City Watch, as if there was nobody else, except the Gold Cloak and me. I didn't see nor hear anything while I fought this man; it feels like I missed the skirmish. I have no recollection at all._

Gerion scurried along the narrow streets of King's Landing; Tywin was fifty yards ahead, slowly progressing on his mount, surrounded by a cluster of Lannister knights and archers. Heading for the Red Keep, he talked with Master Symon. Other groups had been sent to Flea Bottom, to the harbor or to the Old Gate where the rebel host was expected to arrive soon. _The Baratheon host_, he corrected right away. _And the Stark forces, probably eager to know about the Stark girl. She's dead now, most likely, and I guess it's just as well for her. Prince Rhaegar didn't abduct the girl to sing her pretty songs and to put wreaths of flowers on her head._

Gerion sped up, forcing Sandor to lengthen his stride, and they finally caught up with the group led by Tywin. Sandor had never traveled previously and didn't even know Lannisport, his father assuming that his burns turned his younger son to a subject of taunting and therefore leaving him at Clegane's Keep whenever he had to go to the biggest city of the Westerlands. King's Landing was like a new world for a boy who had spent the past years in the woods and fields surrounding his father's keep, yet he didn't want to ask any question and look like a country bumpkin. It wasn't the right moment either.

He nevertheless contemplated the timber-frame houses, their porches used for trade, their jettied upper story proudly towering above the street. King's Landing inhabitants had felt the danger and immediately emptied the porches of the goods they contained; for the same reason, shutters hid the windows. He imagined families gathered on the upper floor, locked in their houses and anxiously waiting for the end of the day.

The street weaved between houses so tall with their jettied upper story they darkened the sky and one could have the impression that two men standing on the third floor balcony on either side could easily shake hands. On the ground, although the street they were in seemed rather large and was presumably busy on ordinary days, there was more filth and mud than cobblestones by places, and the men had to avoid the open sewer; Tywin's horse paid close attention not to walk in, like some dainty girl wearing her finest dress.

They had only seen a pig scrounging around for scraps so far; as soon as the skirmish began at the gates, the townsfolk had understood and run away, sheltering themselves where they could and leaving a strange atmosphere in the capital, as if time was suspended. Thus, their group progressed cautiously in the deserted streets.

A faint hope sprouted up in Sandor's mind. _Mayhaps people are too afraid to leave their houses. They stay where they are; they dare not protest or fight back. If they're smart enough to hide themselves, there won't be any bloodshed. I won't have to draw my sword again. _Clinging onto this idea, Sandor felt reassured as they got closer to the Great Sept of Baelor. _We've been walking for a good while, now; the Red Keep can't be very far. _Suddenly, he remembered his brother and the mysterious orders Tywin had given; he shook his head, refusing to picture what Gregor was doing and who he was hurting at that instant.

Men kept alert in the surroundings of the Great Sept; Sandor caught a glimpse at the marble plaza and the dome-shaped sept, bewildered to see with his own eyes something that was until now a clumsy drawing on the old book he learned to read in. The seven crystal towers sparkled in the afternoon sun, their eerie structure rising into the air.

"We have no time for that," Master Symon growled in a chiding tone, when he noticed Sandor's mesmerized gaze.

"Look at the roofs," Tywin ordered, shifting on his saddle and turning his head over his shoulder. "If the City Watch reorganized its forces, they'll be on the roofs, ready to fire quarrels on us."

Instead of spotting a potential enemy on the roofs, they heard a clamor on their right, once the Great Sept was behind them.

"Could be those you sent to the harbor, my lord," Ser Daven Estren suggested.

Ser Daven was so small and frail Sandor often asked himself how Tywin could have dubbed him and if he had ever been able to joust. He nevertheless was more clever than most of the Lannister knights.

"I told them to stay in the harbor and take hold of it," Tywin retorted, frowning. "We'd better check this out."

With a sweeping gesture, he motioned them all on the right and the men hurried themselves behind him. In this part of the town, the streets seemed awfully narrow compared to the large plaza of the Sept. _Narrow and dark, even in broad daylight._

"Is it a fire?" a young archer asked.

He was only three or four years older than Sandor and didn't look very confident; wordlessly, he pointed at a greyish plume of smoke rising behind a cluster of houses and shops. _Fire_, Sandor thought, breaking into a cold sweat. They heard more shrieks and Tywin's horse sped up, forcing the rest of them to run. The fire was close, perhaps no more than fifty yards on their right, yet the intricate mass of high buildings prevented them from seeing anything; they reached the corner of the street and Tywin stopped abruptly.

The junction of three narrow streets had created a small triangular square; on their left, what had been once the stables of an inn burned and the thick beams supporting its roof collapsed one after the other. The adjoining tavern could be ablaze soon; the prospect of walking past the fire transfixed Sandor.

A gut-wrenching cry made him jump and he turned his head to see who had just screamed, but he only spotted a woman lying on the cobblestones, in front of the tavern; from where he was standing, he discerned the deep red cut on her throat and her hitched up skirts. _Ivy_, he thought, as a blind fury took hold of him. _She's just like Ivy._

Beside her, there was a heap of cloth: a gust of wind unveiled the pink and tiny face of a baby. The child wasn't moving anymore and the realization he was as dead as his mother infuriated Sandor. His turmoil was noticeable enough, for Master Symon put his big hand on his shoulder and squeezed it, as if a simple touch could wipe the image of a slaughtered woman with her dead child. Sandor turned his head over his shoulder and shot Symon a furious and disgusted look. _So you think you can protect me from this? Because you're old and seasoned, you believe you can reassure me with a stupid gesture? I don't need no comfort, I already know all this. You would piss your pants if I told you what happened in the woods, when I ran away from Clegane's Keep._ Master Symon held his stare, frowning, then dropped his hand.

Suddenly, another shriek resounded in the small square and they all scanned the timber-frame houses on their right, wondering which one sheltered the person who had let out that cry. The shutters of the third house were open, unlike most of the other buildings and they caught a glimpse at a Lannister foot soldier, on the second floor. With his long nose and weak chin, the brown-haired man looked like a weasel; a purse in his hands, he froze as soon as he realized Tywin had seen him. _To add insult to injury, they plunder_, Sandor mused.

"Get out!" Tywin shouted, with an imperious gesture.

They heard some bustle in the house, foreshadowing the arrival of contrite soldiers. Three Lannister men exited the house and timidly stepped forward, moving past the baby and his mother.

"Who's in charge, here?" Tywin asked. "I sent you with Lord Banefort to hold the harbor!"

"Told us we could push on and go the Great Sept, m'lord!" the weasel-face explained.

"To light candles and pray the Mother?" Gerion hissed, pointing at the dead woman.

The three foot soldiers looked at each other, one of them frantically shaking his head.

"They put up resistance, m'lord," the weasel-face went on, his innocent eyes widening.

In view of his untruthful tale, Sandor's stomach churned. Deep in his throat, he felt the acid taste of bile; he gritted his teeth and instantly clenched his fists. _If I ever have a chance to pay you back for what you did..._

The hooves of Tywin's horse impatiently resonated on the cobblestones.

"If the Lannister host steals and plunders, people will believe I don't handsomely pay my men," Tywin spat. "They'll imagine there's no more gold in the mines under my control and I'll be pissed off. Is that what you want?"

_Fuck, what about the murdered woman?_

The three men shook their head and the weasel-face bowed in front of Tywin's mount with a fawning expression.

"Now, come with us," Tywin ordered, leading the group through the small square; they walked past the ablaze stables and the dead bodies. Sandor noticed more corpses further; two dead men, one leaning back against a cart-wheel and one lying on his stomach, a dagger stuck in his back.

"What about the screaming we heard?" Sandor asked Master Symon. "Shouldn't we-"

"Just forget it, boy," the man replied, avoiding his gaze.

The three plunderers followed, a sheepish look on their face. On both sides of the street starting at the small square, the doors were open, revealing soldiers had visited these houses. The group progressed slowly, still expecting some kind of rebellion, although nothing came. Every time he turned to glare at the weasel-face, Sandor found him and his companions further behind the group. The three men whispered to each other, sometimes nodding, sometimes shrugging but always kept a close eye on Tywin.

Now that the Great Sept was behind them, the Red Keep loomed over the city, its assumptive towers rising in the cloudless sky, trumpeting no one could ever take hold of its high walls. _But Gregor is out there and whoever Tywin told him to kill, he probably succeeded._

A grating voice suddenly broke the silence and a bunch of Gold Cloaks emerged from an alley on their left, sword in hand. They were only six and most likely knew they couldn't defeat the Lannister men, yet they threw themselves on Tywin before the crossbowmen could draw the bowstring, assuming that once their leader dead the Westerlands host would break down.

The Lannister knights unsheathed their swords and fought back, while the archers let fly their quarrels. Two Gold Cloaks fell at once; far from frightening their companions, their death gave them a surge of anger. One disarmed and stabbed Ser Daven who almost collapsed in Sandor's arms: leaving the wounded knight on the cobblestones, he pounced on the Gold Cloak who didn't realize what was happening before Sandor's blade pierced his chest. Surprised by his own boldness, Sandor held the man's vacant stare until the Gold Cloak's legs gave out, and watched him again as he laid on the ground. _I aimed at the heart, like Gerion had said._

Behind him, the other Gold Cloaks were dead and Master Symon leaned over Ser Daven, a puzzled look on his face. Although the frail knight moved slightly, the master-at-arms swept the little group until he found Tywin's eyes and he shook his head.

"He won't make it," he announced, taking the knight's hand in his.

Sandor stared at Tywin, even if he knew it was rude, and tried to decipher his expression. The Lord of Casterly Rock had removed his mailed gloves and he could see the knuckles turning white on the horse's reins, but his face remained impassible.

Sensing his eyes on him, Tywin looked back at Sandor and tilted his head to catch a glimpse at the result of the boy's fury; he observed the Gold Cloak Sandor had slain, fallen all sprawled out on the ground, then he nodded. His green gaze would haunt Sandor for days and make him wonder what Tywin had in mind at that instant: was it some recognition of the boy's value? Was it a gesture of reassurance directed to a young squire facing his first battle? Or did Tywin simply nod to himself, admitting he had hit the nail on the head about Sandor's skills?

Ser Daven breathed his last breath and Master Symon closed his eyes before covering his body with the knight's cloak. Tywin's men silently gathered around the body and this token of respect somehow hurt Sandor: he had nothing against Daven, but the fact that they took time for him while they had ignored the dead woman and her babe seemed unfair. He felt a lump in his throat, but Master Symon, who stood beside him, misapprehended his reaction and squeezed his arm with a sort of paternalistic concern.

"You'll be just fine," he promised Sandor.

_You don't understand anything, old man._

When he raised his eyes, Tywin was scanning the surroundings, knitting his brow.

"Did anyone see the foot soldiers? The thieves?" he asked coldly.

"Fuck, they're gone!" Gerion exclaimed. "They disobeyed; we shouldn't let them go-"

"I'll find them!" Sandor announced and he saw Tywin nodding in acquiescence.

He was already retracing his steps, convinced they would go back to the small square where they had left their loot, when he heard Tywin's voice.

"Symon, go with the boy. I'm pretty sure he'll find them, but I don't want him to get lost."

Tywin's order irritated him more than he could say. _And he tells Master Symon to go with me, like a wet-nurse or something! All Symon can do is slow me down. He's too fat to run!_ Behind him, Symon nevertheless huffed and puffed. Sandor tried to remember which street they had taken before, relying on the painted signs swaying in front of the closed shops. From time to time, he would gave a look at the roofs, to make sure nobody was about to let fly some quarrels, but he could only think of the weasel-face and the shriek he had heard earlier.

When he finally reached the small triangular square where the stables still burned, he had shaken off the master-at-arms. He felt a jolt of anticipation when he spotted a silhouette in the house where they had seen the plunderers, thanks to the open shutter, and ran to the door. The baby and his mother were still there, and he promised to himself he would find some blanket inside the house to cover them.

Once the door shut behind him, he listened carefully. In front of him, there was a flight of wooden stairs and on his left, the workshop of a goldsmith. The workshop seemed empty and the foot soldiers had probably began their search for gold there. He listened again: at first, his heart beat so wildly in his chest he couldn't hear anything, then a creaking noise confirmed there was someone upstairs.

Silently, he removed his worn-out boots and put them near the door, then he slowly climbed the stairs; before he reached the landing, he heard muffled voices and his right hand instinctively grabbed the pommel of his sword. He stopped in front of the first door and pricked up his ears.

"...Told you I heard something!" someone hissed.

"If Lord Tywin is after us, we're dead."

"Cravens. You're just afraid of getting your hands dirty!"

Sandor took a step further, leaned back against the wall, on the left side of the door and slowly unsheathed his sword.

"What was that?" a voice asked, inside.

Before one of the man's companions could answer, Sandor smashed in the door with a single kick and threw himself on the weasel-face. He was aware of the other two foot soldiers' presence in the room, but kept the thought in a corner of his mind and gave in to his blind fury.

Dragging the weasel-face in front of the door in order to stand in the way, he straddled him, punched his face, then grabbed his brown hair and pulled hard until the man's head bent back and his Adam's apple jutted out in his long neck.

"Who killed her?" Sandor asked him, as the other plunderers crawled toward the open window. "Did you?"

"Fuck, who are you talking about?" the man whined, mouth covered in blood. "I- I just wanted to have fun with that woman who owned the tavern. But I swear I didn't killed the girl. It was an accident."

_The girl?_ Sandor watched him, hesitating between utter astonishment and disgust.

"We can share what we found with you," the weasel-face suggested. "We could-"

A dagger digging into his chest cut him off. Before he could realize it, Sandor had killed a third man, not to protect his life, nor to avenge Ser Daven's death, but because he couldn't stand what the plunderer implied. He couldn't tolerate being taken for a thief.

"What kind of monster are you?" one of the foot soldiers whispered, clumsily searching for his knife.

This one was as shortish as the weasel-face was lanky; kneeling beside him, a fat man sweated streams under his helmet. Suddenly, the fat one stood up and tried to escape through the open window. Sandor grasped his belt and tried to prevent him from jumping. While the fat man frantically resisted him, the shortish one ran away and Sandor heard him hurtling down the stairs.

"Seven hells, what are you doing?" someone bellowed outside and he recognized Master Symon's voice.

Still struggling with the fat plunderer who leaned out of the window, he spotted the master-at-arms in the middle of the small square.

"I found them, but one escaped. Try to catch him!" he retorted.

Symon might have been surprised by Sandor's commanding tone, but a few heartbeats later, the puffing and panting of two men fighting in the street announced the shortish man was no more on the run. By the time Master Symon climbed the stairs with his prisoner, Sandor had knocked the fat man down and leaned back on the wall, out of breath and exhausted. As the master-at-arms slowly opened the broken door, Sandor scrutinized the shambles around him and began to understand what had happened there.

The room was rather large, with a fireplace; the goldsmith probably lived here with his family, if the two beds and the long table were any indication. During their search, the plunderers had tossed the goldsmith's belongings on the floor, emptying chests and bags, ripping open the mattresses; all around Sandor, they had left a mess of straw, clothes and dishes. _But where is the girl?_

Standing on the threshold and still firmly holding the small man, Master Symon contemplated the dead soldier at his feet, the unconscious one lying on his stomach and let his weary eyes fall on Sandor.

"What have you done, boy?"

The question was simple enough, yet Sandor couldn't speak plainly without revealing a part of the sinister memories still haunting him.

"He killed innocent people. He stole them," he finally answered. "He disobeyed Lord Tywin."

He hoped this clarification would convince Symon. The man sighed heavily, hanging his head, and when he spoke again, his voice seemed faltering, as if he didn't believe his own words.

"You can't kill someone of your own army, you know that, right?"

"He murdered the woman and her babe and probably someone else. Ask him."

The shortish man was too scared not to confess everything Sandor wanted him to say; Ragged Tom, the weasel-face, had killed the woman who owned the tavern across the square, her babe, the goldsmith and his daughter, according to him. He explained that him and the big man had begged Ragged Tom to spare the women's lives, in vain. At that point, whether he couldn't bear his lies or feared what Sandor could do to the shortish man if he didn't react first, Symon slapped him in the face.

"I have to find the girl," Sandor said, while the master-at-arms took a discarded rope to tie the soldiers' hands.

"Look, Clegane," Symon replied, "this city is full of dead girls by now. You can't do anything for her."

Ignoring his advice, Sandor got on his feet, went back to the landing and stared for a while at the other door before opening it. What he saw made him freeze. The plunderers had come in this room and searched for gold or valuables; in the indescribable chaos that remained, only a thick wooden table emerged. The dead body of a blond girl leaned against the table, her hiked up skirts and torn smallclothes showing her legs and her pale bottom. Her once fine clothes were tattered and bloodied. Sandor couldn't see her face reclining on the table and hidden by strands of golden hair; however, another girl's features melt into hers, even if this one was the healthy daughter of a goldsmith and not some peasant girl so desperate she had accepted to work in Clegane's Keep. Even if the scarf oddly wrapping her neck revealed she had been strangled and not beaten to death.

_It's too late. Once more. _He was persuaded the shriek he had heard before they first found the plunderers was hers; the certainty he could have saved her at that moment stung. These men were not Gregor: stopping them wouldn't have been so difficult. He clenched his fists and felt the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.

Symon had finally tied the two foot soldiers; when he joined Sandor he couldn't help cursing.

"You can't do anything for her, boy," he repeated tentatively.

Sandor shot him his darkest stare and stepped forward, fighting back tears. Despite his blurred vision, he managed to hide the girl's nakedness with what remained of her skirts and tried to scoop her up in his arms. Her lifeless body was difficult to move: he already knew it and wasn't surprised to fail at first.

"Fuck, what are you doing?" Symon asked while Sandor carried the girl toward the threshold.

He didn't speak like the master-at-arms who bellowed his orders in the yard of Casterly Rock and frightened the pages; his begging tone struck Sandor and made him realize the seasoned man considered him as an equal at that instant, no matter what would happen later. The boy didn't reply; Symon nonetheless stepped aside so that Sandor could go back to the first room.

The foot soldier who had tried to run away gaped at the sight of Sandor holding the dead girl in his arms and carefully laying her down on a bed. He brushed the blond hair from her face and felt the still warm flesh of her cheeks. The realization that she had died shortly before brought back the guilt._I could have done something for her. She could have survived._

He took a sheet the plunderers had tossed on the floor, covered the girl with it and turned to the foot soldiers.

"Where's the goldsmith?"

"He- he's dead," the shortish man stammered.

"I know. Where is he?"

"Downstairs, in the workshop. Tom left him in a corner."

_So that's why I didn't notice him at first._ Sandor grabbed a blanket and ran down the stairs without ever looking at the weasel-face. As the foot soldier had told him, the goldsmith had been stabbed to death, then dragged in a corner of the room. He simply put the blanket on his body, while Symon went down the stairs with his two prisoners.

Wordlessly, Sandor put on his boots and opened the door, then shoved the foot soldiers outside; the fat one, hardly awake, stumbled and nearly fell. In the small square, the dead mother and her child were still lying on the cobblestones, near the smoking ruins of the stables.

"You've done that before," Symon whispered.

It was more a statement than a question. Sandor turned slightly to look at him straight in the eyes, but the answers he could think of seemed whether unnecessary or painful. Instead of trying to explain something Symon well understood, he stopped near the mother, scooped her up and carried her inside the tavern. Although the smoke made him cringe, he put her carefully on a long and wide table where she could lie with her baby, then he looked around him. The foot soldiers had visited this place, as well; the broken jugs and knocked down stools revealed they had spent some time there before noticing the goldsmith's workshop across the square. He went back to the baby, while Symon and the foot soldiers still watched him, the old master-at-arms with a kind of sad resignation in his eyes, whereas the plunderers seemed dumbfounded.

"Seven save us, who is he?" one of the foot soldiers asked, when he walked again in the tavern, the dead child in his arms.

He lay the baby in swaddling clothes down, next to his mother, and deplore the lack of blanket to protect them. _But at least, they're inside. Somebody will find them and bury them properly._ He left the tavern, now finding difficult to hold the foot soldiers' stare.

As they walked away in the mid-afternoon sun, they heard a creaking noise coming from the second floor of the house neighboring the goldsmith's workshop; someone who had been observing them for a while had just closed the shutter. The idea that some inhabitants could have seen him carrying the dead woman and her child embarrassed him, even though he couldn't explain why. He sped up. The shortish man who panted behind him cleared his throat.

"Someone else will come, you know. Aye, boy, someone else will come and take their gold. You think the townsfolk are innocent people? They'll just come in and steal their belongings!"

Sandor briskly turned around, ready to fight, but Symon had already seized the man and pinned him against a wall. The foot soldier helplessly opened his mouth as the master-at-arms squeezed his throat.

"Watch your tongue, little shit!" he threatened him. "Lord Tywin told us to find you but he didn't say how many plunderers he wanted back. Right now, I'm the only one who stands between you and the squire's blade."

He let go with him and gave Sandor a knowing look before leading the boy and their prisoners through the narrow and filthy streets of King's Landing.

On their way to the Red Keep, there would be deserted places where one could believe the population had run away and streets covered with corpses, Sandor knew that. He would see dead Gold Cloaks and slaughtered inhabitants, people who had been killed because they wanted to defend their family or their valuables against the Lannister host.

What he had done for the goldsmith's daughter or the woman who owned the tavern didn't change anything to the cruelty of the Sack and he doubted he could ever forget the screech he had heard earlier nor the dreadful vision of the dead girl. All these memories would join the ones he kept in a corner of his mind and vainly tried to erase. Like the burns on his face, what he had been through made him a different person. The memories would come back sooner or later, on a battlefield or in a town like this one; he could not fight them but perhaps could he live with them and not let them destroy him, until someday, he found a way to heal his invisible wounds.

* * *

**Eddard**

Long before the host reached the high walls surrounding King's Landing, he noticed the plumes of smoke concealing the roofs, wreathing the towers in their greyish embrace and curling in the clear sky. His men, the brave soldiers who had faced the royal army in Stoney Sept and at the Trident before making this forced march, began to look at each other and to whisper. They didn't understand what they saw and, at first, he shook his head in bewilderment, remembering what Robert had said about the 'preparations' King Aerys had ordered throughout the town and the harbor. Were these fires in the largest city of the realm the consequences of the king's lunacy? Only a sick mind could plan the destruction of the capital which would kill thousands of innocent people.

However, as Howland and him scanned the horizon, they remembered the tales about Aerys' fascination for fire, especially for wild-fire and Ned realized the dark plumes of smoke were not consistent with what one could expect from the king's precious pyromancers.

When Aerys had chosen Lord Rossart, a member of the Alchemists' Guild, to be his new Hand, a few days earlier, the king had put all his hopes in someone who wouldn't fight like Jon Connington, nor temporize like Owen Merryweather. Rossart had never held a sword before and wasn't famous for his political skills, but he knew more about wild-fire than anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms. _Still, this can't be wild-fire._

Wild-fire would burn everything and illuminate the sky with uncanny green hues, blinding the Stark forces as well as the inhabitants. Eddard imagined a terrible heat, charred corpses and an infernal landscape that would give a foretaste of the Seven Hells. What he saw from the hills overlooking the capital was frightening yet completely different: the fires were numerous, but they didn't spread in the city. The plumes of smoke were dark, too dark to result from wild-fire and the sequence of events disconcerted him, as well: Aerys was mad, but he was smart enough to wait for the rebel forces _before_ setting fire to the city. Destroying his enemies obsessed him and Ned took the king's grudge toward the Northerners seriously. _He wouldn't let us escape, if he ever had a chance to kill us. Unless someone else who chose the traditional way over the occult sciences set fire to King's Landing._

Shifting on his saddle, he turned to Howland Reed and Wyman Manderly.

"Tywin Lannister," he said flatly.

Brow furrowed, the two young lords looked back at him; while Howland slowly regained his impassible expression as soon as he processed Ned's words, Wyman Manderly cursed in astonishment.

"Tywin fucking Lannister? Seven buggering Hells, Eddard... This would be his... work? It doesn't make sense!"

"On the contrary," Howland replied, shivering despite the warm sun, "it makes sense. Do you think someone like Tywin Lannister would choose to die for a lost cause? For a king who rejected his daughter as a possible match for the Crown Prince? Aerys humiliated Tywin Lannister and this is his revenge. He's burning the city where his daughter was supposed to marry."

"Burning a city such as King's Landing is crazy," Manderly protested, an incredulous smile on his face.

"Call it retaliation, then. Gods, we're not listening to the _Rains of Castamere_. We're _watching_ this song."

Releasing the reins for a heartbeat, the Crannogman showed the city with a sweeping gesture, then he set his green eyes on the pillars of smoke darkening the mid-afternoon sky, as a strange expression crept over his triangular face.

"King Aerys will die before sunset," he announced.

Eddard glanced at Wyman Manderly, eager to watch his Bannerman's reaction: disbelief lingered on his features and he swallowed hard, but he didn't criticize Howland's prediction, for once. No matter how the other lords rolled their eyes in annoyance, every time Howland foretold an event, he was right.

"We can't waste time, then. Ned, what do you think?"

"We should hurry."

Trying to forget the stiffness he felt in his back because he lacked sleep and couldn't stand his breastplate anymore, Eddard turned to give a look at his men: tired but disciplined, the Northerners, the Tully and Baratheon hosts formed an endless column in the green landscape of the Crownlands, stretching to the horizon. Knights, horsemen from the North, with their mounts, foot soldiers from every part of the realm that questioned the Targaryen king: wherever they came from, their features showed the same resigned weariness. _Where do I lead this army?_ As he didn't have any answer, he let his horse feel his spurs and hurtled down the hill.

* * *

He had been clear when he had given his orders – insistent and even uncompromising with Roose Bolton, in fact – and demanded a behavior beyond reproach. No killing, no looting would be tolerated and he encouraged his men to let know any abuse toward women or children – once more he had stared at the pale Lord of Dreadfort who cleaned his fingernails with his dagger to stave off boredom.

His men had followed his instructions to the letter but Ned couldn't tell if they were obedient soldiers or if the sight of corpses lying on the burning ruins of the capital had upset them as much as it devastated him. By the time they crossed the Gate of the Gods, the Lannister host had caused more damages than any other disaster since Aegon had founded King's Landing. The Seven, whose solemn faces carved in white stone framed the Gate of the Gods and reminded the travelers that the Faith protected the city, had forgotten the inhabitants.

By his side, Howland cringed on his saddle every time they moved past a burnt house or a heap of bodies. _Nothing prepared him to see slaughtered people_, Eddard mused. Not that he was hardened compared to his friend, but Crannogmen lived a simple life; they fished, they hunted, they sometimes fought against the harsh environment of the Neck, but they didn't fight their fellow-men. Northerners grew up with the terrifying stories of battles against the Wildlings or the creatures beyond the Wall, while the tales the old women of the Neck whispered by the fire were about the encounter between the Children of the Forest and strange animals.

_We're so different._ He glanced once more at Howland and he could have sworn there were tears in the Crannogman's eyes. _He's so empathetic; when most of the men in this host see the horrors surrounding us, he feels the victims' suffering as if it was his._ And suddenly, Eddard felt ashamed because the violence they witnessed didn't really surprise him.

A squire from the Stormlands caught up with him as they crossed Cobbler Square, an almost cheerful look on his round face. Ned frowned in such a way the squire lost his spirit and lowered his dull blue eyes to the reins of his horse.

"My lord, Lord Robert has been riding to rejoin us and he shall arrive soon," the boy announced with a reedy voice.

He nodded curtly and the squire left him, his puzzled gaze revealing how Eddard's coldness toward such news was disturbing. Hooves resonating louder on the cobblestones warned him someone was behind him and Howland. He turned around just in time to see Rickard Karstark's tight-lipped expression.

"What does it mean, Eddard?" Karstark asked, in his straightforward style. "Did Tywin Lannister decide to claim the Iron Throne for himself?"

"He would have attacked us, in this case. If he let us in the city, he plans an alliance with Robert."

"With us," Karstark corrected.

Ned felt his shoulders sink and he swiveled to face his Northerner friend. Karstark's knowing look washed over him but didn't soothe the anxiety anchoring deeper in his bones as they progressed toward the Red Keep.

"Fuck, I don't like it either," Karstark sighed. "And what are these banners on the Red Keep?"

* * *

_What happened to the royal family?_ The question tormented him since Howland had foretold the king's death; when crossing the Gate of the Gods or looking up at the Red Keep, Ned couldn't help wondering what Tywin Lannister would do with the king, his Hand or Rhaegar's wife.

Every time he saw a dead woman lying in the streets leading to the castle, whether she was young or old, fully dressed or almost naked, he thought of the Dornish princess and hoped the Lannisters had simply locked her in some dungeon. Perhaps some Dornish knight had found a way to rescue her; the idea, as comforting as it may be, seemed unrealistic. After all, Elia of Dorne had somehow stolen his daughter's betrothed and Tywin Lannister had no taste for forgiveness.

_Yet, I couldn't imagine he would command this._

At first, he had thought that Rickard Karstark might be right when he had asked if Lord Tywin was not claiming the Iron Throne: the Lannister banners flying over the Red Keep, their crimson fabric darkened by the greyish smoke of the fires, made Jon Arryn curse while Ned feared the worst.

After he had found Ser Jaime Lannister from the Kingsguard sitting on the Iron Throne, King Aerys' bloodied corpse at his feet, he felt trapped: no matter how strict his orders had been concerning violence and looting, no matter what decision he would take later, his name would forever be associated to the Sack of King's Landing and the murder of the last Targaryens.

Ser Jaime's betrayal and the sight of Aerys lying in the Great Hall while his murderer, a member of the Kingsguard sat on the Iron Throne made the king's death both ironic and humiliating, but what kind of words could express the disgust and hatred he felt when Robert finally arrived and was given the dead bodies of a little girl and her baby brother as a token of loyalty? Tywin's cunning smile when he glanced at Robert made his stomach churn. Robert looked back at the man who had ordered the slaughter of a woman and her two children, and the relief everyone could read in his eyes hurt Eddard like a stab.

_We were friends. A long time ago, we were friends and you spoiled everything: you didn't deserve Lyanna's affection and you betrayed my trust. Many men won battles for you or died in your name! Now your selfish decisions sullied their reputation and mine._

He stormed out of the Great Hall, not bothered by Jon Arryn's reproachful gaze and sought refuge on a large balcony overlooking the gardens; this peaceful vision contrasted so much with the display of violence in the city and the crimson cloaks saturated by the children's blood it made him cringe. He didn't know for how long he stayed there, alone with his guilt. As he clung to the guard rail and braced himself against it, he heard behind him brisk footsteps and recognized Howland. _Perhaps the only person who understands my reaction._

Ned turned slightly, locked eyes with his friend and gave him a poor smile: take it out on Howland would be the last thing to do. Howland took a few steps further, leaned his elbows on the guard rail but remained silent; there was nothing to say, even for the wise little man born in the Neck.

They contemplated the square flowerbeds, the ocher paths between neat hedges of box-tree, the gurgling marble fountains; all this scenery had been created so that the king could rest after hours spent inside the Red Keep attending ceremonies or ruling the realm, and under the soft, caressing sunbeams of the late afternoon, the gardens of the Red Keep reached their perfection. Yet, the acrid smell of smoke coming from the ashes of the city found its way to their nostrils. _Mayhap the stench was the same the day Father and Brandon died._

"Why are you always right?" Eddard asked Howland, and it sounded like a blame.

The sun was coming down, setting fire to the greenery, turning the yellowish-brown alleys into copper: the intoxicating view abruptly reminded Ned of Howland's prediction.

"About the king's murder?" Howland replied. "I hated King Aerys for what he had done but I wish things were different. He deserved a trial. And a proper execution, but afterward. Besides, Ned, I've made mistakes. I was wrong the day I told you and Benjen the Knight of the Laughing Tree would forever remain a secret."

"What have we done?"

Eddard turned to his friend, trying to regain his composure despite the tears burning his eyelids. As usual, what he saw in Howland's gaze soothed him and gave him the comfort he needed. _You can rely on me_, the green eyes said.

"We're here for your sister," the Crannogman whispered. "I'll stay by your side until we find Lyanna. Then we'll ride back home: you'll join your brother in Winterfell and I'll go back to the Neck."

Ned could seek solace in the prospect of seeing the high walls of Winterfell again; he nodded vehemently.

"Who are the Lannister men who killed the Dornish princess and her children?" he asked Howland.

Since their ride through the city, an idea had crept in his mind: the Wall needed men and for some of the so-called knights who had killed people and raped women during the Sack, taking the black seemed appropriate. _Perhaps too kind, in fact._ Elia's murderers deserved the black, at the very least.

"They're both Lannister Bannermen, knighted not long ago. A... Ser Amory Lorch and a man called Gregor Clegane. You can't miss this one. He's so tall and massive he earned an ominous nickname: the Mountain. It was a slaughter, Ned. Amory Lorch stabbed Rhaegar's daughter so many times no servant can recognize her. And the Mountain..."

Howland stopped talking for a while and Eddard regretted his question.

"He found Princess Elia with her son," Howland went on. "People say he took the baby, smashed his skull against a wall. She watched her son die, Ned, and she couldn't do anything. Then he raped her and killed her, but I don't know how, because I couldn't stomach it. You know, it's weird, because... I've fought battles with you, I've seen what they did to this city, but that... those details... I couldn't stomach it."

As Howland tried to collect himself, Eddard cursed in an undertone. _They'll pay for these murders._ He didn't know yet how to convince Robert, but the crimes would not go unpunished.

All of a sudden, a tall figure leaped out from the corridor leading to the Great Hall and almost ran into Howland before ending up at the opposite corner of the balcony where they stood; bending over the guard rail, the intruder vomited his last meal, then wiped away his mouth with the back of his hand and gave them a sheepish glance.

Now that he was standing up, Eddard could notice the boy's height – he had easily towered above Howland a few heartbeats before – his shoulders breadth, the crimson surcoat revealing he was a Lannister creature and the right side of his face. _A squire. Gods, he's young, so young._

"Looks like someone didn't stomach it either," Howland commented in an undertone.

"He's a Lannister," Eddard flatly observed.

Ignoring his remark, Howland walked toward the Lannister squire.

"Are you alright, boy?"

"I-I'm fine. Thank you my lord. I'm sorry for..."

Ashamed, he stopped short of going into humiliating details. To his great surprise, the boy's voice had not broken, which meant he was even younger than Eddard thought. The tiny, almost girlish voice contrasted with his grown-up stature and a kind of wildness his eyes exuded.

As the boy shifted from foot to foot, he finally caught a glimpse at the left side of his face and gasped. He had seen this boy in the Great Hall, somewhere behind the lords of the main houses of the Westerlands, but he was on the opposite side of the room at this moment, and the boy's dark hair partly hid his features.

The burns were so deep, so extended, Ned didn't even know someone could survive them. From hairline to chin, the boy's left side was a mass of scars; the flesh was black by places and Eddard sucked in deeply when he realized the ear had disappeared, leaving a hole his strands of hair barely concealed. He must have felt Eddard's eyes on him, for he briskly spun on his heels, only showing them the unburnt side of his face.

"It's a long way from the Westerlands," Howland went on.

"Aye, my lord."

"It was your first battle, right?"

"It was not a battle. It was a sack," the boy spat. His tone was full of contempt and disgust.

_At least, there is one person in their damn host who acknowledges what happened here._ The boy looked behind him, wondering if he should stay here with his liege lord's new allies or if he should go back to the Great Hall: his shoulders finally sank and he didn't move.

A gust of wind made Howland shiver, and brought again the smell of smoke. When Ned lifted his eyes, he discerned small things twirling in the air, like greyish snowflakes fluttering about for a while before landing on the balcony; the boy saw them too, and extended his hand to touch them. A puzzled look on his face, he scrutinized the snowflakes that would not melt despite the warmth of his palm.

"Ashes," Eddard explained abruptly.

Howland and the boy turned to him, more surprised by his sudden attempt to break the silence than by his answer. The three of them stood there, watching the evening wind bringing more and more ashes on the dead king's perfect garden, dusting the bright flowers and the box-tree with a greyish substance, until the boy finally left them wordlessly.

"Do you know who he is?" Eddard asked Howland.

Whenever they met new people, Howland always managed to identify these persons and to learn things about them before Ned; besides, he had noticed that his friend had not asked the boy's name, as if he already knew. Howland locked eyes with him, slightly embarrassed.

"His name is Sandor Clegane," he answered with a hint of reluctance.

"Clegane? Like the man who raped and killed Elia of Dorne?"

Eddard's indignant tone made Howland shake his head. _You don't understand_, the green eyes said.

"He's the Mountain's brother, yes. But you saw his reaction. He's young, very young: just try to imagine what he witnessed today."

"Come on, Howland... If he's the Mountain's brother-"

"He hates his brother," Howland stated, with this solemn voice that roused suspicion and annoyance among the rebel lords.

"How do you know?"

"I've heard he ran away from home after his father's death," Howland replied, ignoring his question. "And there's more. After his son got his scars, Lord Clegane kept saying the boy's bedding had caught fire, but some people put the blame on Gregor. It's an open secret in the Westerlands"

"He would have burnt his own kin? That's monstrous! How did you learn all these details about a boy belonging to the Lannister host?" Eddard asked, frowning.

Folding his arms on his chest, he waited for Howland's response, almost sure he wouldn't appreciate it.

"I've talked with Gerion Lannister."

Cursing, Eddard pinched the bridge on his nose between his thumb and forefinger, then locked eyes with the Crannogman.

"A Lannister, Howland? Are you out of your mind?"

He suddenly didn't care if someone could hear their conversation; his distrust toward Lord Tywin was an open secret, like the origins of the boy's scars.

"Gerion Lannister is not like his brother," Howland explained in an undertone, leaning toward him. "You can't just lump together all the members of the Lannister host. Some disapprove, like you partly disapprove Robert's decisions."

Dismayed, Eddard looked at Howland and understood his words could easily outrun his thoughts if they kept talking.

"I've heard enough," he said, shrugging. "I've seen enough today. So I'm going to... explore this castle until I find a place where I could sleep. A damn place where I'm alone, a place that doesn't remind me of the horrors that happened here. Don't know if such a place exists."

Under Howland's saddened gaze, he chuckled nervously, then left the balcony and went back inside; though he didn't look back, he felt like someone had been hiding behind the open door leading to the balcony, listening to their whole conversation.


	10. Chapter 10

**From this chapter until the end of this story, there will be some differences between this fic and 'Two-and-Ten', if some of you ever read both.**

**Warning for underage activities. If you feel uncomfortable with it, you should probably not read this chapter. Now you're warned...**

**Chapter 10**

**Jon**

Sleep shunned him; he spent his nights tossing and turning on his pallet, under the thick fabric of the tent he shared with two young sellswords. Not that his companions were noisy – they were young recruits, and they barely snored – but his mind simply refused to yield and behind his shut eyelids images of Westeros churned over and over.

At the end of the night, when the moon slowly retreated from the sky, he finally drifted in and out of sleep, drowsing then waking up with the slightest noise. Sometimes, he dreamed and though he couldn't remember anything afterward, he knew it was a bad dream for he always woke up with a start, bathed in sweat and panting.

After a fortnight, his inability to find sleep remained a mystery; he felt awfully tired during daytime yet couldn't rest whenever he had a chance. He sought solace in training and being busy with the usual duties of an encampment, but everything turned out to a chore. _Is it Rhaegar's death?_ In this case, why had he slept so well on his first nights there, with the Golden Company?

He still couldn't explain his sleeplessness the day Myles Toyne asked for him; he walked to the shining tent surrounded by golden skulls hanging from the pikes and ducked his head to came in. Settled on a folding seat, the Captain-general didn't even beckon him to sit down and Jon guessed their conversation would be short.

"Seems like Illyrio Mopatis wants to talk to you, Connington," Toyne rasped. "Take your mount and go to his mansion. Come back before sunset, though. I allow you this little trip to Pentos because I have known Mopatis for a long time and I owe him one, but I'm not indebted to you. And I can't let my men come and go for any reason. Got it?"

Jon nodded silently and felt a jolt of energy: if Mopatis wanted to talk to him, he might need his service. _After all, the Spider may have whisked Elia and the children away. Are they hiding somewhere in Westeros or are they already here? _The idea of seeing Elia again was definitely not tempting, and he foresaw difficulties of all sorts – Mopatis would give him stupid instructions, the princess would be sick and frail as ever and he had never been traveling with children – but he could keep his promise. He could feel useful again.

His horse's gait seemed incredibly slow that day, as he crossed the grassy plains, staring at the high walls of Pentos. He regretted insomnia had left him so tired; at the same time, he knew Elia's incessant chatter would wear him out and maybe it was the way he would finally sleep. The idea made him chuckle and he let his mount feel his spurs; it was still early in the afternoon, but if he had to go back to the encampment, he'd better not waste time.

Once in Pentos, he rode through the same dusty streets where servants wearing heavy bronze collars vainly sought shade. He dismounted in front of the creamy yellow high wall and knocked at the porch. The same old man who had welcomed him the first time appeared in the half-open door then let him in; Jon found the gardens and the mansion unchanged since his first visit, except that the place had not the same effect on his mind. He felt serene as he came in the large room with small fountains, expecting to wait for his host a good while before seeing him and froze when he saw Illyrio Mopatis there.

The fat Pentoshi pushed himself from his armchair and smiled, his mask of apparent self-confidence cracking when he met Jon's narrowed eyes.

_No. Don't tell me the Spider failed again._ _It can't be true._ There was a long silence, as Mopatis gestured to the bench seat across him and faced Jon's curt refusal. Mopatis nevertheless sat down in his armchair and sighed.

"Tell. Me. What. Happened." Jon asked, stressing every syllable and grasping the back of the bench with both hands until his knuckles went white.

He was aware all this looked like he was threatening his host, regardless of the laws of hospitality. Mopatis hesitated, mouth agape for a few heartbeats, but when he would recall their meeting later, Jon would admit to himself the Pentoshi took him seriously enough to begin with what seemed the only good news.

"Aegon is alive," Mopatis finally announced.

_It means Elia and Rhaenys are dead._ His knees gave out suddenly and he didn't protest when his host reiterated his gesture to the bench seat. Settling himself on the silken cushions, Jon tried to process Mopatis' words. _Elia is nothing to me. I hate her, I despise her. But Rhaenys..._

"I know it's a hard blow for us all and a terrible defeat for the Targ-" Mopatis said with his smoothest tone.

"A terrible defeat?" Jon roared. "You call that a terrible defeat? She's dead. She was so young..."

"Princess Elia was such a lovely person, no doubt that-"

"I don't give a damn about Elia!" he shouted. "I would have kept my promise to her, but I never liked her, never trusted her. I'm talking about Rhaenys."

Mopatis gave him a blank stare. _He doesn't know the little girl's name_, Jon realized. He ran his fingers through his red beard, trying to regain his composure and locked eyes with the fat man.

"What happened?" he managed to ask, more courteously that time.

"It seems that King Aerys followed Rhaegar's advice and asked Tywin Lannister's help after the Trident," Mopatis began, his voice revealing weariness. "The Lannisters agreed on defending King's Landing again the rebels. Lord Varys was nevertheless anxious and he settled on switching Aegon with another baby."

Jon fidgeted, ready to cut him off, but Mopatis raised his hand in a soothing gesture.

"Jon, please, don't interrupt me. Varys advised Aerys not to open the gates for the Lannister host, because he didn't trust Lord Tywin, but the Grand Maester, this Pycelle, he reassured the king and... he set the cat among the pigeons. They sacked the whole city, Jon."

Silence descended upon the room and for a while, they only heard the weeping waters of the fountains.

"Tywin Lannister chose the winning side, but he needed something to offer Lord Baratheon," the fat man went on.

"Elia and the children."

"The king was murdered by Lord Tywin's son, Ser Jaime. I suppose you know him. Two Lannister knights were sent to break in the Red Keep during the sack and they killed Princess Elia and her children."

"Who are they? The Lannister knights?" he asked.

His own detached tone surprised Jon, and his host, still expecting a fit of anger, raised a puzzled eyebrow.

"A man named Gregor Clegane... dishonored... and murdered the princess. He killed her so-called son, as well."

Jon's nervous chuckle startled Mopatis who shifted slightly.

"Isn't it ironic? Rhaegar himself dubbed the young Clegane a few months ago. Did he kill Rhaenys?"

"I don't think so. Lord Varys mentioned a Ser Amory Lorch."

_Give me a boat and I'll go back to Westeros, find this Amory Lorch and kill him. I'll disarm him and let my blade dig in his abdomen, so that I can watch him die slowly._ He doubted Amory Lorch's death could give him solace and well knew the knight's death wouldn't bring back the trusting little girl who mispronounced his name. _But I'll avenge her._

All of a sudden, he remembered Varys' plan of switching Aegon with another baby boy and directed his resentment on Mopatis. Sacrificing another child instead of Rhaegar's daughter might be cruel, but if it was the only way to save Rhaenys, he would have gotten his own hands dirty.

"Why didn't the bloody Spider find a low-born girl and disguise her with Rhaenys' dresses?" he growled.

The fat man didn't answer immediately, weighing his words.

"Lord Varys thought about using the same subterfuge for both children, but it's easy to replace a swaddled baby by another swaddled baby," he offered. "Instructing a little girl so that she played the role of Princess Rhaenys was much more difficult; anybody could find out-"

"Save your breath. There's another reason, right?"

Jon wasn't even surprised. Ill-at-ease, Mopatis played with his golden rings.

"Try to convince a mother to let her child go, Connington, and you'll understand. The prospect of putting her son in the care of strangers terrified Princess Elia. She kept repeating she wanted her daughter with her."

"Crazy woman, she doomed her own daughter!" he hissed.

Jon couldn't tell what overwhelmed him; there were no words to express the anger seething inside him, a rage aiming alternatively at the Lannister knights, at Elia, at Varys. There were no words either to describe what he felt for Rhaenys; she wasn't his kin, he barely knew her, had held her once a day, the little girl missed her father and that was all. Yet she had touched him in an unexplainable way and she had aroused emotions he didn't know he possessed.

"Why did he save Aegon instead of her?" he asked, doing his best not to show his fury.

Even if Jon knew the answer, he needed to hear it from Mopatis' mouth. The fat man swallowed hard, aware his words wouldn't soothe his guest's nerves.

"It was the right thing to do. Being Prince Rhaegar's rightful heir gives Aegon all chances to unite the forces still faithful to the Targaryens when the time comes. The loyalists will follow a young man without a second thought. No offense, Jon, but Westerosi people are rather conservative and they always chose men to lead them. I'm not sure they would have followed a girl."

He jumped on his feet and leaned toward Mopatis, a mad look in his eyes.

"You and Varys have this little girl's blood on your hands! Elia should have known, she should have sensed the danger, but she was a foolish woman. Varys... The eunuch could have saved Rhaenys and he didn't! While you'll lie down on your feather bed, hiding your paunch under silken sheets, you'll remember her name and how you refused to help her, causing her death!"

Out of breath, he felt his cheeks burning under Mopatis' cold stare. The display of anger and frustration somewhat repelled the fat man but Jon didn't care about the Pentoshi's contempt.

"I could have saved her," Jon added, forgetting his earlier rage and softening his voice. "I told Elia I could take Rhaenys with me, but she refused. I should have insisted. I should have done it, unbeknownst to Elia." His voice broke. "I would have taken good care of her and she would be alive."

Once he went silent, Mopatis scowled at him.

"I thought you were a warrior, Jon, but you're getting sentimental."

It felt like a slap in his face, and if Mopatis meant to awaken him with this cutting remark, he exceeded his expectations.

"You and Varys want me to crush our enemies so that we can restore the Targaryen dynasty? Fine. I'll crush them. I'll kill the Lannisters and their knights one by one. I'll find this Amory Lorch, open his belly and strangle him with his bowels. I'll burn his keep and destroy every damn trace of his existence. And if you want, I'll chase this beast of Gregor Clegane, cut his manhood and stuff his throat with it. Varys would shiver at that thought. You call that sentimental?"

Jon vaguely knew his chest was heaving while anger contorted his face. The Pentoshi's expression gradually softened and he regained the mask of false empathy that irritated Jon.

"You had more than your share of hardships, lately," he said. "Since your exile and Prince Rhaegar's death..."

"I'm not interested in your feigned compassion, Mopatis. You're wasting your time. What do you want from me?"

No matter how adamant and dry his tone seemed to the Pentoshi, he still struggled to regain his composure as he sat down on the bench seat, putting aside the stupid cushions.

"Aegon is still in King's Landing, hidden somewhere," Mopatis explained. "I wanted you to know about the Sack and I wanted to ask you if you're still determined to keep your promise. Elia's murder changed our plans."

_How? Don't tell me you and the Spider didn't consider that Elia could die. You already knew it could happen._

"Aegon will soon cross the sea and he'll stay here, in Pentos, with a wet-nurse. However, he's Rhaegar's heir and someday he'll claim his rights. He'll need someone to protect him and to teach him everything a prince should know about Westeros, about warfare, about the Faith of the Seven. You'll be that man, Jon."

The large room went silent again as Jon pondered on Mopatis' words.

"I'm a sellsword now," he stated flatly.

His new status seemed conflicting with the prospect of raising a child, even a child who would lead men to a battlefield someday.

"Yes, you are," Mopatis retorted. "And you'll stay in the Golden Company for some time. In a few years, Lord Jon Connington will die very conveniently but you will rise as a different man, a father, shielding his son."

The child Mopatis offered him to protect was not the one he cared for and the future he envisioned for Jon was dramatically different from what he expected; he would brood over it for days. _They knew it_, he suddenly realized. _Varys chose me on purpose, because he wanted me to raise Aegon._ He felt dizzy, wondering_ when_ the eunuch had chosen him, if he had already settled on Jon the day he whispered his name in the king's ear. _But he couldn't know I would lose at Stoney Sept, he couldn't know I'll be sent in exile... or could he? _Jon felt at a loss; he nonetheless crossed his legs in a casual way and looked at the fat man.

"Is that all?" he asked, keeping up the appearances of the arrogant exiled lord. "I assume our little conversation is over. If you will excuse me."

He stood up and left a dumbfounded Mopatis; as he walked away, he heard him mumbling something about ill-mannered Westerosi lords.

* * *

**Eddard**

When the morning fog dissipated in the first rays of light, the inner yard of the Red Keep looked like a pigsty and its ocher sand disappeared under a chaos of tents and camp fires. _Two hosts sharing a castle which is smaller than Winterfell_, he mused, disheartened by the sight of archers and lancers still sleeping under their rough blankets or getting up to relieve themselves against a wall.

Leaning his elbows on the window ledge made of pale red stone, Eddard observed the improvised camp of the Lannisters, directly below him. _Crimson tents and the crimson banners everywhere. At least, they removed the red banners floating above the Red Keep._ Tywin's good will gesture didn't soothe Eddard's thirst for revenge though; on the contrary, it increased his need to see the Lannisters punished for what they had done. _A Lannister always pays his debts. Well, I'll give them an occasion to prove consistent and pay for their crimes._

He stood up and resumed his walk to the Tower of the Hand, where Jon Arryn had probably taken up residence. After their arrival in the Red Keep, it had been obvious that only Arryn could be Robert's Hand. Robert had offered Ned the badge with a tiny hand carved on it, but he had refused instinctively: it was late, Eddard had finally found a room where he could have some rest in Maegor's Holdfast, and already slept when a drunken Robert knocked at his door. Ned looked fixedly at his old friend begging for his advices and his help to rule the realm, then telling him that, being the Hand of King, he would become rich and powerful. Puzzled by his cold stare, Robert rested his head against the door frame, swallowing hard as he understood Ned could refuse.

"Winterfell is all I want, now," Eddard replied after a few heartbeats. "I did what I did for Lyanna, not for titles."

With that, he closed the door in Robert's face and heard the new king bellowing he would give the badge to Arryn. Eddard hardly slept, after Robert's visit, pondering over the situation and thinking of the better strategy to get rid of the Lannisters' presence. _But Arryn will listen to me: he'll understand my point of view and tell me how we can set Tywin Lannister aside from the small council._

As he left Maegor's Holdfast to cross the yard leading to the Tower of the Hand, the acrid smell of smoke reminded him of the dreadful visions of the sack. He winced and kept walking, avoided a foot soldier sobering up and reached the Tower where Arryn had most likely spent the night. Ned was sure that once Robert had gotten over his refusal, he had turned to Arryn. And Arryn had accepted: the Lord of the Eyrie would not let Robert alone. Sometimes, Eddard wondered if Arryn didn't prefer shaping his wards – Robert and himself – to ruling the Vale. Arryn loved to play the part of the wise and seasoned man who advised them when they had doubts and chided them when they misbehaved. _Now he will have many reasons to chide Robert._

Another flight of stairs led him to a corridor where he recognized the blue and white banner of House Arryn, several guards and the squire who served Jon. The boy bowed slightly and knocked at the heavy door made of oak banded with black iron to announce Ned's arrival. Arryn's baritone voice asked who paid him a visit so early in the morning and he finally told his squire to let Eddard in.

Since he was a boy, Ned had heard about the Red Keep and the apartments of the Hand; he had imagined large rooms with a solemn atmosphere, not a solar littered with Arryn's belongings – clothes, weapons and scrolls. Arryn wasn't fully dressed; he stood next to the table, his breeches on, while his doublet hanged on the back of a chair.

"You didn't sleep a wink all night," Arryn said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. It was not a question.

"You know me well. Congratulations. You're now the Hand of the King," Eddard replied, sweeping the cluttered room.

"I should have refused. Being Robert's Hand is no bed of roses."

Arryn's honesty forced a smile out of him.

"We need to talk about the Lannisters," Eddard went on.

"Very well. You read my thoughts. Please take a seat, Ned."

His back stiffened immediately; whenever Arryn told him to sit down before discussing serious matters, it meant that he had bad news. He looked at the broad-shouldered man suspiciously and nevertheless settled on a heavy armchair, while his host put his doublet on.

"We must get rid of the Lannisters," Eddard said plainly. "They sacked the city and therefore must be punished."

"They gave Robert the Iron Throne," Arryn retorted, sitting across him.

"I found Jaime Lannister lounging on the Iron Throne!"

"Nobody can lounge on the Iron Throne. The blades-"

"I don't care about the blades!" Eddard roared. "He was sitting there because his father wants to rule the kingdom. The Lannisters won't stop until they get what they want."

"And what do they want?" Arryn asked, sarcastic.

"Power. Tywin wanted to overthrow Aerys as much as Robert, but he didn't want to waste his forces in a war, so he waited until no one could ignore which was the winning side. Why did he arrive just before us in King's Landing, according to you?"

"Because he wanted to give Robert a token of fealty."

"The slaughtered children. And their mother, raped and stabbed. Or strangled, maybe. Howland heard them talk about it, but he was so disgusted he left before getting all the details about Princess Elia's death."

He didn't try to conceal the hatred and contempt he felt. Ill-at-ease, Arryn shifted on his high-backed armchair.

"Please, Ned. Elia was our enemy. Her husband abducted your sister."

"I doubt Elia of Dorne helped Rhaegar when he stole Lyanna. All I know is that she was an innocent woman and those Lannister knights killed her."

Arryn avoided his gaze for a few heartbeats, gathering his thoughts.

"What do you want?" he finally spat.

Annoyance distorted Arryn's features and on his long neck, Eddard saw his jugular vein jutting out.

"Justice," Eddard answered, a challenging look in his eyes. "Of course, the inhabitants of this city won't see justice done. Do justice to the people of King's Landing would mean hang or send to the Wall every member of the Lannister host-"

Arryn's fist hit the table with a thud and he cursed in an undertone.

"So I will ask for one thing, Jon: bring to justice Ser Jaime Lannister for regicide, Ser Amory Lorch for Rhaenys Targaryen's murder and Ser Gregor Clegane for Princess Elia's rape and murder-"

"Are you out of mind?" Arryn rasped. "You want to destroy all I did last night."

Eddard leaned forward, his hands lying flat on the thick table, and when he uttered the question that burned his lips, he sounded almost contemptuous.

"May I ask what you did last night?"

"I did my best to bring peace to the Seven Kingdoms."

There had been a time when the man sitting across him was the closest thing he had to a father, a time when he trusted his judgment and admire his noble behavior. _This time is gone. Is that what you're supposed to feel when you become a man? Disappointment, betrayal and a taste of ashes in your mouth?_

"What title did you promise Tywin Lannister, Jon? No, let me guess: he'll be Robert's Master of Coin. Now you're going to tell me he's perfect for the job."

Arryn shook his head.

"Despite your suspicions, Tywin Lannister doesn't want any title. I promised him a wedding."

_No. Not that wedding._ Like the fog dissipating in the yard a few moments ago and revealing the crimson tents of the Westerlands host, Tywin's plan appeared clearly in Eddard's mind; he wanted Robert to marry his daughter Cersei, so that she could be queen. Robert's heirs would be Baratheon _and Lannisters_. Tywin would not only have his revenge on the Targaryens he loathed, but also on the ruling Princess of Dorne, whose daughter had married Rhaegar. _Tywin kills two birds with one stone; House Lannister becomes the second more powerful house in the realm and Robert burns his bridges. No need to be very smart to imagine that I will disapprove this wedding and walk away._

"I'm sorry Jon, but you're making a huge mistake," he commented flatly.

"You don't understand anything, boy."

It had been years since Arryn had talked to him so harshly.

"Listen, Ned. There's a time to make war, to be pitiless with your enemies, but a true leader knows when he has to make his peace with someone. That's what we did, last night, Robert and I, while you and your friend Howland Reed were sniveling about the Elia's death! We talked with Tywin Lannister, we tried to make a long-lasting alliance which will save the realm."

"Save the realm?" Eddard repeated, skeptical.

"There is no gold left in the royal treasury. Do you have the slightest idea of how much costs a war? We don't have enough coin to pay our soldiers, we must rebuild the cities destroyed during the battles. I could tell you about the necessary works in Stoney Sept, but you just have to look through the nearest window to see the ruins. And Tywin Lannister can lend the Crown all the gold we need."

Ned chuckled nervously.

"So what? Being rich enough to rebuild King's Landing allows him to sack the city, burn down the houses and rape the women? Tywin's gold mines will buy your absolution?"

"This is not a joke, Ned. These are serious matters."

"I was not joking when I asked you to punish Jaime Lannister and the Lannister knights who killed the last Targaryens."

Arryn sighed heavily.

"What do you suggest?"

"Jaime Lannister could take the black, at the very least," Eddard offered. "It would be a honorable way to pay for his crime."

"No way. Robert can't marry one golden head and send the other one to the Wall. What would it look like?"

"Justice. Impunity is a very bad signal you send to the smallfolk."

"This is not justice: this is politics and you clearly don't understand politics."

There was no more cruelty in Arryn's voice, only a hint of sadness. _He's as disappointed by my behavior as I am by his. We should end this conversation before one of us says something he can't take back._

"The two Lannister knights..." Eddard began, swallowing hard, "they're not Tywin's kin. They're pawns. I want them dead. I want Robert to announce they'll be beheaded for their crimes... If you want to make peace, you should think about the Dornishmen. You can't just make an alliance with the Westerlands and forget about Dorne."

He stopped talking for a heartbeat, well aware that his last suggestion would sound like he waived his idea of justice.

"Jaime Lannister is free to go if Tywin delivers Lorch and Clegane. The Martells will never forgive Robert if he let those so-called knights escape justice."

Eddard knew he had reached a sensitive area; Arryn remained silent for a while, observing the grained surface of the table, then raised his head and met Ned's eyes.

"I doubt Tywin will accept such a deal."

"There's only one way to be make sure he'll refuse: we should ask him. I will ask him in front of Robert."

Eddard pushed himself from his seat, waiting for Arryn's reaction.

"Robert is probably still asleep," Arryn observed, glued to his gilded leather armchair.

"A king shouldn't sleep when his realm is but ruins," Ned spat. "Do you think that Tywin Lannister is asleep?"

He walked to the door but Arryn's voice stopped him mid-stride.

"I'll go with you, Ned."

* * *

Their encounter took the appearances of a Small Council, not only because Arryn invited them all in the Tower of the Hand. The other members of the former Small Council being either dead or dismissed, the Master of Whisperers, Lord Varys, and the Grand Maester Pycelle attended the meeting, their presence showing that a kind of strange continuity with the Targaryen era existed. Both seemed ill-at-ease; Pycelle smiled a bit too much and Varys remained very silent for a man supposed to know everything, even the more trifling events of the Seven Kingdoms.

Robert was sitting at the head of the table, with Arryn at his right side; Tywin Lannister and his brother Gerion took place on Robert's left while Eddard shared the other end of the table with Varys and Pycelle. Some boys stood near the door, bearing their master's livery: Robert's timid squire, Arryn's beanpole and the scarred boy serving Lord Tywin he had met on the balcony. _Clegane's brother. Why did Tywin choose a boy who is neither old enough nor able to make a good impression to squire for him? Does he use the boy, because of his name, as a reminder of what he's ready to do, like ordering the slaughter of a woman and her children?_

"Ser Amory Lorch and Ser Gregor Clegane are mine," Tywin answered softly after listening to Eddard's question. "Mine to chastise or to reward. In this case, I'll reward them."

He looked so threatening at this moment, despite his exquisite manners and clear-cut tone, that Pycelle shivered.

"They got rid of three persons who stood in King Robert's way to the Iron Throne," Tywin added. "Your address makes me question your loyalty towards King Robert, Lord Eddard."

A seething rage took hold of Ned. _The lion feels in his bones I distance myself from Robert and he'll use our difference of opinion shamelessly._

"I'll lend enough gold to rebuild most of the places ruined or destroyed by battles. It's a good deal for the Crown," he added, glancing sideways at Robert. "No need to say that I would reconsider my offer should my Bannermen be brought to justice."

"Why are we talking about this, in the first place?" Robert asked.

Understanding his old friend wouldn't help him in this, Eddard's heart sank.

"Will you agree with me, Lord Tywin, if I say you brought the children's dead bodies to our new King as a token of fealty?" Eddard went on, ignoring Robert puzzled look and the quivering of Pycelle, beside him.

Tywin nodded slowly, his unsettling green eyes locking with his; a few yards behind the Warden of the West's high-backed chair, he noted how furious the young Clegane looked, shifting from foot to foot.

"What kind of loyal liegeman were you when you sacked and burned the capital? When your men killed or raped the townsfolk?"

"Enough!" Robert bellowed.

When Gerion Lannister opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, his elder brother raised his hand in a commanding gesture that shushed the fair-haired man; Gerion sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. Beside Ned, Lord Varys kept staring at Tywin, fascinated by his demeanor. The Lord of Casterly Rock let out a sigh expressing his annoyance in front of an assembly so unworthy of his cleverness, rooted his elbows to the table and looked at them over steepled fingers.

"I won this city for King Robert and I prevented the mad king from burning it. Do you think he would have set fire to a bunch of inns like some of my men did? No. If I had not interfered, you would have seen green hues in the sky, green flames devouring houses and people alike. Your host would have waited for one night and one day, until the ashes went cold, before crossing the gates. Nothing of this" – his hand showed the room a sweeping gesture – "would remain. I did save the city."

Undeterred, he scowled at Eddard.

"And what would it look like if the men who got rid of the remaining Targaryens and secured the dynasty your friend King Robert is about to start were beheaded? Smallfolk would not understand such a decision. However, there's something I understand quite well, Lord Eddard. You don't care for the late Dornish princess, nor for her children, nor for my Bannermen. With your accusation, you only mean to harm my son, Ser Jaime."

Eddard got on his feet instantly, startling the Grand Maester who cringed on his seat.

"I will not have you talking to me this way, Lord Tywin. Instead of accusing me, you should consider your own actions. You betrayed the Mad King soon after promising him your help and you butchered the largest city of the realm. As for your son, he discarded the vows he had taken and stabbed the king he once swore to protect. I'm sad to observe that the such a conduct could go unpunished, after a war that meant to free us from the unfairness of the Targaryen era."

A sardonic smile appeared on Tywin's lips.

"Wars aren't won with promises and pledges, Lord Eddard."

"A pledge I made months ago is precisely the reason why I am here today," he retorted.

"I pity you, then."

Tywin's piercing green eyes were set on Ned, as if the Lord of Casterly Rock tried to understand what he considered an idiotic and nonsensical attitude. _He thinks fools like me die young. _Robert and Arryn remained silent, thus showing they wouldn't take Eddard's side.

"Anyway," Tywin added, "I won't let you punish my Bannermen – let alone my son – but... I wanted to chastise some of my men who overstepped my orders. If King Robert wants to make an example of these men, I'm ready to hand them over. Tell me Gerion, what happened with the plunderers we caught near the Great Sept?"

"Master Symon and your squire took care of them," the second golden head replied. "We should ask Clegane."

Turning around, he motioned the boy to come, while Pycelle and Varys suppressed a shiver. _The boy's name will soon be an insult, after what his brother did._ Just before the meeting in the Tower of the Hand, he had heard Northerners referring to Jaime as the Kingslayer. _'Kingslayer', 'Clegane' these names will be Robert's reign new spectres._

The tall scarred boy took a few steps forward and stopped in front of his master.

"Where are they, Clegane?" Tywin asked.

"Master Symon and I locked them in the dungeons."

"Wherever you go, Clegane, you can't help visiting dungeons," Gerion commented and it sounded like a private joke.

Whether he enjoyed the jape or not, the squire remained very serious, glancing from time to time to Pycelle who adjusted his lorgnon on his nose to have a good look at the boy's burned cheek.

"Go fetch Symon and bring back these men," Tywin ordered. "Lord Eddard wishes to make an example and I want to oblige him."

The boy turned around and walked away.

"Are we done?" Robert asked.

"I suppose we are," Tywin replied in a casual tone. "As for the feast I intend to regale my host, we already discussed it."

Eddard swallowed his pride, understanding that Robert would not question the alliance Arryn had made with the Lannisters.

"May I ask if I could examine this boy's extraordinary burns?" Pycelle asked, with his quavering voice.

Tywin stared at him for a while, his green eyes glistening with a mix of surprise and anger.

"The boy is mine," he answered curtly, "and he'll go to the maester only if I tell him to do so."

With that, Tywin pushed himself from his chair and took his leave, his brother on his heels.

Eddard was still standing at the end of the table, near a dumbfounded Pycelle. Beside the Grand Maester, Varys let out a deep sigh and raised his gaze to him.

"Lord Eddard, may I have a word with you?"

* * *

Myrish rugs covered the floor in the Master of Whisperers' apartments, muffling Lord Varys' footsteps. The Spider offered him to sit down on a couch and chose for himself an armchair upholstered with lilac brocade that almost matched his long silken tunic.

"I may have information for you," the eunuch began, hiding his plump hands in his long sleeves. "When you mentioned that vow you made, during your... tactful debate with Lord Tywin, were you referring to your sister, Lady Lyanna?"

"Can you tell me where she is?"

Eddard didn't even try to conceal the urgency in his tone.

"Would that I could. Alas, my lord, Prince Rhaegar was a cautious young man and I only have hints. I can ask my little birds to find substantial clues, though. I believe she is in Dorne, but I didn't locate her precisely and Dorne is such a large peninsula..."

Ned swept the large room furbished with an exquisite taste and finally set his eyes on his host.

"Are you trying to oust me, Lord Varys? To send me away from King's Landing?"

Unabashed, the eunuch tilted his head and smiled.

"Well, my lord, I didn't know you were so eager to stay in the capital."

"I'm not. Right now, all I want is to get my sister back and to see Winterfell again. However, if you try to keep me out of the Red Keep so that you can resume your little schemes-"

"This place is dangerous, Lord Eddard. Dangerous and hardly compatible with your nature, but you already discovered it. King Robert will probably send you to rescue his younger brother in Storm's End; I can nevertheless gather some more information about your sister before you come back, if you want."

Eddard nodded gladly. The prospect of leaving King's Landing and its web of intrigue was all he needed.

* * *

**Sandor**

"You must be over the moon," Serrett told him with a smirk.

Sandor had just left the balcony where he had met Lord Eddard Stark and the pipsqueak from the Neck who was his friend, when he met Serrett on his way to the Maidenvault. The Red Keep still looked like a maze for Sandor, but he knew that Tywin would be in the Maidenvault and would need his service. Serrett was leaving the long slate roofed keep as he called him out. Sandor stopped mid-stride and gazed intently at Gerion's squire, wondering about his remark.

"Why would I be over the moon?" he asked Serrett.

The squire snorted, but as Sandor took one step forward, he noticed the boy's red eyes.

"'Cause Banefort is dead," he spat. "That makes you Tywin's one and only squire. It seems that you have the luck of the devil, Clegane."

He frowned in disbelief, ignoring what Serrett implied.

"But how?" he said.

_Banefort will be knighted soon, probably by King Robert. He can't die now._

"Lord Tywin sent House Banefort and loads of crossbowmen to the harbor," Serrett replied, sniffing. "Banefort was among them. Some sailors resisted and Banefort got killed during an ambush."

Serrett went silent, observing Sandor's reaction. After staring at his reddened face for a few heartbeats, Sandor averted his eyes, bobbing his head. _So that's why I didn't see him in the Great Hall, when Gregor and Amory Lorch presented the corpses of the Targaryen children to Robert..._

He peered at Serrett who seemed furious.

"I'm sorry," he said flatly. "Banefort was a good squire."

"As if I didn't see you fighting with him!" Serrett hissed. "You hated Banefort, you double-faced bastard, so don't tell me you're sorry. Now you'll squire for Tywin. You'll have everything you wanted since the day you arrived in Casterly Rock. Oh, it didn't take you a long time to achieve your ends... Only a few months, fighting with other squires, licking Tywin's ass..."

Sandor stayed perfectly still, slightly shaking, but keeping a grip on himself; after what he had seen in the streets of King's Landing during the day, he felt nauseous enough not to hit the first prick who provoked him. His lack of reaction made Serrett frown; he finally understood that Gerion's squire looked for an excuse to brawl, and he expected Sandor to start the fight. _As a way to conjure his sorrow for losing a friend? _After all, he had seen stranger things.

"You know what?" he told Serrett, moving past him. "I don't care about your opinion on me. I don't care about squiring for Tywin or for someone else. You're an asshole if you think I rejoice in Banefort's death and-"

Before he could finish his sentence, Serrett jumped on his back and tried to strangle him; the boy kicked and squeezed Sandor's throat with all his might. Even taken unaware, even in the aftermath of the sack – or perhaps _because_ he had witnessed so many horrors that day – Sandor didn't feel like striking back: he seized Serrett's wrists and forced him to release his hold, then shrugged the squire like a useless cloak. Serrett landed on his hands and knees, cursing and choking back tears. The blond boy looked so miserable at that instant, Sandor couldn't help staring at him before walking away.

* * *

_I'll be responsible for their death._ The prospect made his head spin, as he followed Master Symon in the spiral staircase leading to the Red Keep dungeons. After the meeting between the new king, his counselors and the Lannister siblings, Tywin had ordered him to bring back the plunderers they had caught the day before so he could show them to Robert. _Robert Baratheon the first of his name... it sounds odd. He'll be the first king in three hundred years not to bear a Valyrian name..._ The thought disturbed him, but not enough to make him forget about the two poor devils who awaited their fate in the dungeons underneath the Red Keep.

Because of the stairs' uneven surface and the feeble light, Master Symon carried a burning torch. The master-at-arms had first offered it to Sandor, before thinking better of it and silently taking the piece of wood soaked in pitch. The boy was grateful for Symon's attention and kept a reasonable distance between him and the flames. From time to time, they heard droplets falling from the ceiling; receiving some water on the top of his head, Symon cursed and wiped it immediately. As they progressed deeper under the luxurious rooms of the Red Keep, the drop in temperature surprised Sandor who soon shivered in his crimson tunic.

"So the man I talked to said there were four levels of dungeons in the Red Keep," Master Symon rasped, breaking the heavy silence.

"I don't understand," Sandor replied. "When we locked the foot soldiers, we only saw one floor, and most of the cells were empty. Why are there _four_ levels?"

Symon turned around and in the flickering light of the torch, his ugly face took a devilish appearance.

"Seems that we only saw the first floor, where common criminals are confined. Each level has his purpose. The high-born captives stay in the second level, where there are no windows and only torches burning to give them some light; the third level contains black cells, with no windows nor torches. It must be terrible to spend days and nights in the black cells..."

"What about the fourth level?" Sandor asked as the master-at-arms resumed his descent into the bowels of the Red Keep.

"The fourth floor is used to torture prisoners and neither you nor I want to see this."

Sandor repressed a shiver.

"Are they going to torture them, Master Symon?"

"I don't think so, boy. Torture is meant to make people confess their crimes. King Robert doesn't care about what these men did, he just wants to make an example... What?"

He cast a glance at Sandor and noticed his frowning; as usual, he misunderstood the boy's expression.

"Nothing," Sandor answered. "Some men don't use torture to make people confess their crimes. Especially when there are no crimes to confess."

The images he tried to forget had come back without warning, as disturbing as ever. _Violence is just Gregor's way to entertain himself, when he's bored. Or pissed off, or whatever._ Symon looked at him intently, his self-confidence vanishing in the dark staircase and his jaw dropping with fright when he realized what Sandor meant and who he was talking about.

"We won't visit the fourth floor," Symon told him firmly. "And the plunderers won't be tortured, I give you my word."

"You don't need to promise me anything," he retorted, barely concealing his anger. "Promises are for fools."

Symon put his torch in the nearest sconce and stared at him. The master-at-arms had the same look Sandor had seen in his eyes the day before, as he carried the dead girl to her bed: puzzled, sad and somehow tender. The kind of look that made him feel ashamed; he suddenly wanted to eat his words.

"I'm sorry," he said flatly, eyes downcast. "It's just that they're going to die because of me."

Symon seized his shoulders and forced him to meet his gaze.

"They're thieves and probably murderers. You caught them. I should be the one who feels guilty because I didn't lift the little finger to save this poor girl."

While Symon confessed his weakness, he felt more pressure on his shoulders, as if the man leaned on Sandor.

"Why did no one try to help her? We could have done something before leaving the square."

"We were obeying orders, boy. That's what soldiers do. But I don't want you to feel guilty; they deserve their chastisement. And never forget that Lord Tywin sent you to bring them back yesterday, then decided they'll end up on the gallows, to please King Robert."

The master-at-arms sighed heavily before letting go with Sandor. _We're pawns_, he thought bitterly. _I thought I was doing something good when I chased them in the streets of King's Landing, but I was just a pawn, like the plunderers, in the little game Tywin plays with the new king and Lord Stark._He felt like a cog in a wheel, trapped in a monstrous clockwork. If he didn't want to obey orders, all he could do was run away. The images of his stay in the woods before he arrived in Casterly Rock flooded in. As Symon took the torch and grabbed the keys hanging from his belt, Sandor shook his head. _Not now. Someday, when I'm ready._

* * *

"You killed your first man before bedding a girl," Symon said with an inebriated voice. "It should be the other way around. The Gods... the Gods have forsaken us. Trust me, Clegane, this world is crazy."

Wine induced tirades didn't really surprise Sandor now that every member of the Lannister host was more or less drunk. Around him and the master-at-arms, the lords, knights and foot soldiers were drinking all kinds of alcohol one could find in King's Landing, from the most expensive wines imported from Essos to the piss-poor ale and cheap strong-wine the commoners loved; the only difference was that the lords and knights drank their Volantene wine in the Queen's Ballroom, while Tywin had bidden the archers and lancers to stay outside, in the Red Keep's inner yard.

Sandor and Symon stood at the threshold of the Queen's Ballroom, between the two worlds observing each other without mixing. The boy was accustomed to the nobility's despise toward him and to the smallfolk's distrust; he simply didn't belong to either group. However, he had never realized Symon felt the same: in fact, he ignored Symon's past.

"Can we stay here with the commoners or should we go inside?" he asked the pot-bellied man.

"As long as I can drink, I don't give a fuck about it, boy."

He took another long gulp and chuckled, almost choking on his wine.

"Are you a knight?" Sandor asked again.

"I'm the youngest son of House Vikary. People said a Reyne bastard founded our house. A Reyne bastard! That makes me less than a shit in Lord Tywin's eyes, since he killed all the members of House Reyne and destroyed Castamere. My father had the strangest idea; the year Tywin came back from Castamere, after he had crushed the rebellion, he sent me to Casterly Rock. I wasn't welcome there, and I was neither good-mannered nor smart. But... I was good with a sword and that's why his father, Lord Tytos, let me stay as a master-at-arms. I knew I could never be a knight, so now I tyrannize the knights-to-be!"

He burst out laughing and poured more wine in Sandor's goblet. Remembering his terrible headache after his first night of bender, the boy resisted – feebly – then took a sip. _So Master Symon is not as old as I thought. He's not older than Tywin._ Stroking the dark stubble covering the lower half of his round face, Symon looked at him with a bawdy smile.

"Aye, Clegane, it's a shame you killed your first man before bedding a girl. But at least, we can find a solution."

Thanks to the darkness, the master-at-arms couldn't see how red and burning were the boy's cheeks. Sandor swallowed hard, then cleared his throat.

"Girls don't like me. I scare them," he explained.

The master-at-arms patted his shoulder and shook his head.

"You think girls like this?" he asked Sandor, slapping his paunch. "Do you think they want to kiss my big nose? No they don't! That's why we're going to the brothel tonight."

"You said you would take me to the armor-smith," Sandor said, a little too promptly.

He didn't mean it, but he sounded a bit disappointed. Symon let out a raucous laughter, called the nearest group of archers and pointed at Sandor, as if he wanted the men to back him up. The archers ignored what the master-at-arms found so hilarious, yet they burst out laughing all the same. Symon finally calmed down.

"So you're the kind of boy who prefers buying swords than fucking girls? Come on, Clegane, we can do both!"

A look of feigned dignity on his rubicund face, Symon raised his right hand.

"I, Symon of House Vikary, promise to take you to the armor-smith tomorrow, on the condition that you first come with me to a pleasure house. Tonight. You won't keep your sword forever in its sheath, boy."

As Sandor's unease became palpable, the master-at-arms stopped his banter and went serious.

"Listen to me, boy. You don't have to be ashamed. Whores exist for fat men, old men..."

_For scarred men?_

"I often go whoring, because no woman wants me for free," Symon added. "You can be whoever you want in a brothel. You can pretend you're a handsome youth like Ser Jaime Lannister, if you want. Whores exist for ugly men like me. Or..."

He hesitated, then glanced at Sandor's ruined cheek.

"Or boys like you. I suppose all boys go to the brothel, first. What kind of girl do you like?"

His question puzzled Sandor. He didn't even know men had usually a kind of girl they preferred.

* * *

Symon insisted on freshening up before going to the brothel, so he went back to his room, fetched a basin of water and washed hastily. Then he donned his best tunic and joined Symon in the corridor.

On their way to the Street of Silk, a long street housing most of the capital's brothels, the master-at-arms kept talking and ranting under the influence of alcohol and Sandor settled for nodding and not contradicting him. However, the prospect of sleeping with a girl scared him so much he didn't listen to Symon.

He had seen animals in Clegane's Keep, he had heard men talking about women and boasting themselves in the Westerlands and on the road to King's Landing, yet the possibility that he could someday touch a girl was disturbing and remained an abstract idea. _Girls don't like me. I scare them_, he repeated to himself. _They only see the scars._

Over the past moons, his body had changed and, in Casterly Rock, Tybolt's curious look whenever Sandor got undressed had confirmed he was not a child anymore; only his high-pitched voice, this embarrassing anomaly, betrayed his age. He was taller than the oldest squires and still growing up; while the other boys of two-and-ten were generally lanky, his muscles allowed him to carry heavy shields and weapons to help Symon. The master-at-arms had even told him he could someday wield a greatsword with one hand and knowing that he would be able to do such an uncommon thing was a source of pride.

_But it's not about height and muscles, tonight._ He had had disturbing dreams lately, and had woken up in the morning, pouring sweat and feeling odd. Sandor had a vague idea of what was going on, but as he always did when something confused him, he had decided to shrug it off. Yet he couldn't pretend this night was ordinary. Declining Symon's offer now would turn his only true ally away and Sandor rejected that thought, slightly shaking his head. _Next turn of the moon, I'll be three-and-ten_, he remembered. _I'm a grown man, now._

Symon went silent and suddenly stopped in front of a thick wooden door, before tapping the door knocker. Sandor's heart skipped a beat. _It's too late, now, I can't avoid it._ He realized he felt more afraid than when they had crossed the Lion Gate and he called himself an idiot. _Maybe I'm not a craven but I'm a bloody fool. I fear them more than our enemies. Them, the whores_, he said in petto, trying to get used to the word.

All of a sudden, as the door creaked open, he saw _them_. Standing in the entrance hall and half hidden by a red velvet curtain, behind the old woman who owned the place, they were three very common girls, probably born in Flee Bottom or in some village near the capital, chatting and glancing at the visitors. The owner was as short as skinny; under a shock of grey hair, Sandor noticed the deep wrinkles furrowing her pale skin; she looked up at them and grinned when Symon touched the leather purse hanging from his belt.

"Please come in, Sers. Welcome in Naya's pleasure house!"

Her soft, mild voice sounded a bit soapy.

"We're no Sers," Symon protested.

The old woman tilted her head and smiled playfully.

"Oh, what are you, then? Lords? Two men like you can only be knights or lords. Naya can tell."

Symon turned to Sandor and gave him a knowing look. _Is it what he meant when he said we can be whoever we want in a brothel?_ Naya observed them as they stepped in the entrance hall and she closed the door made of dark oak.

"Hmm, let me guess," she said softly, "an experienced warrior like you needs to forget about the terrible battles he fought with a curvaceous woman. A blond, maybe?"

The master-at-arms hesitated for a heartbeat then nodded. Naya gestured to one of the whores and she stepped forward, puckering up in the flickering light of the candles; she was a pale fleshy blond with long braided hair. Like the two other girls, she wore a see-through gown; hers was blue and enhanced the color of her eyes. Symon seemed pleased enough not to bargain the price Naya announced.

"And what about your friend?" Naya asked, as Sandor's good cheek went red. "A young girl. Not too young, though, he needs to be reassured."

_How did she know? _He sucked in deeply when the old woman brushed aside the dark strands he had flatten on the left side of his face. Despite his humiliation, he tried to stay still and clenched his jaw.

"Hmm-hmm, go fetch Emerald," Naya ordered and he clearly saw the two remaining girls heaving a sigh of relief before vanishing behind the velvet curtain and hurrying in the corridor.

_The same old story. _He glared at the old woman who cautiously stepped back and turned to Symon.

"I'm afraid there will be an additional cost," she told the master-at-arms.

"An additional cost?" Symon boomed. "What for?"

Naya sighed and tilted her head, ill-at-ease.

"Listen, I don't want to scare my girls. And I think _this_" - she pointed at Sandor's burnt cheek - "allows me to ask for a compensation."

As the old woman and the blond whore glanced at him – Naya wondering how much she could ask Symon and the blond with a sparkle of concern in her washed-out blue eyes – he was shaking like a leaf. A heavy silence fell on the entrance hall until a brown-haired girl with a surly face emerged from the corridor.

"This is Emerald," Naya announced, smiling and partially recovering her spirit.

As soon as she saw Sandor, Emerald froze; she was a bit taller than Naya and her yellow see-through gown hardly concealed her slim body. Without her sullen expression and her constant frown, she could have been beautiful. She looked hard at Sandor and tugged Naya's sleeve, leading the old woman in the corridor to protest. In the meanwhile, the blond woman grinned and gave Symon her best bedroom eyes.

Although Naya and the young whore whispered, Sandor caught snatches of their conversation and easily imagined what he couldn't hear.

"I said no..." the girl said. "I'm tired...always fucking babes..."

"No way... I already told them... more coin, Emerald!"

"His scars... Disgusting..."

"You don't need to look at him, girl," Naya said, adamant, and they both went back to the entrance hall.

Behind the old woman, the girl looked furious and she glared at the other girls who repressed a chuckle. Naya planted herself in front of Symon and extended the palm of her wrinkled hand; Symon took his purse and gave her the price she demanded: five stags. Finally, the old woman gave a little flourish with both her hands and Symon left Sandor to follow the blond woman, who wriggled her hips and rewarded the master-at-arms with a languid gaze. The boy's heart skipped a beat; in front of him, Emerald folded her arms, and observed Sandor suspiciously.

"Come on, Emerald!" Naya said, grabbing the girl's wrist with a hint of impatience.

Someone had just knocked at the heavy door and the old woman didn't want to lose a customer. Emerald frowned again and exited the entrance hall without ever looking at him. The corridor, half concealed by the red curtain, was long and dimly lit. On either side, Sandor saw wooden doors. Some were closed and probably busy; a few ones were open and revealed the same furniture: a large bed, one console table supporting a pitcher and a basin. On the wooden floor, there was a chamber pot.

Emerald stopped in front of one of the open doors, at the end of the corridor and sighed deeply before entering the tiny room. As he stood on the threshold, she turned around and gave him a condescending look.

"Are you coming, boy? Maybe you want me to call your mama?"

She mocked his young age, but she wasn't much older. _Probably no more than eight-and ten_, he decided as his mouth went dry. _And I'm a grown man._ _Or at least, I'll be a grown man when I'll leave this room._ He stepped in and closed the door.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! You can find a longer version of Sandor's POV on 'Two-and-Ten' page either on this site or on AO3, but once more, there's a warning for underage activities.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Thanks again to my beta reader, Underthenorthernlights, who edited this despite a bad cold... You're the best!**

**If some of you want to read more of Sandor's POV, you can find a 'bonus scene' in my other fic, 'Two-and-ten' (on Game of thrones' page in this site or on AO3). It will be in chapter 11 as well...**

* * *

**Chapter 11**

**Eddard**

The public execution of the two plunderers Tywin Lannister had generously handed over to Robert was a mummer's farce, only meant to show how strong was the alliance between House Lannister and the Crown. _And to shush me, to prevent me from bringing Ser Jaime to justice._ Maybe there was another purpose, as Tywin's moves were carefully thought through; as he attended the execution in a wooden gallery hastily made in Fishmonger's Square, Ned had seen fright in the eyes of the Lannister soldiers crowded around the scaffold. _Tywin only knows one way to make his men obey: threatening them, feeding their doubts._

Watching the gallows from the place of honor, Robert kept a kingly attitude all along the ceremony. When the two plunderers were but puppets swaying in the air, the inhabitants of King's Landing shouted and bellowed at them, as if these two men had burdened themselves with all the murders, rapes, and thefts that had happened during the Sack.

Afterward, when there was nothing more on the scaffold to entertain the good people living in the capital, Robert stood up and they all acclaimed him. Their cries and their cheers made Eddard sick; a few days before, these men and women praised Aerys and the Targaryens to the skies, and now they were Robert's faithful subjects. _I won't stay any longer_, he thought. He had made his decision.

* * *

His bedchamber was in a mess since Eddard had begun to pack; he had spread out belongings and weapons on his unmade bed, the sheets and furs tossed on the floor adding to the untidiness of the room. Ned, usually so eager to help the servants and to leave his bedroom neat everyday, didn't care this time: he would be gone very soon, and Howland would go with him.

Someone came in and Eddard, kneeling before the chest where he stored his clothes, opened his mouth before raising his gaze.

"Howland, we should hurry-"

Except that it was not Howland. Jon Arryn stood on the threshold, an angry look on his wrinkled face.

"What in Seven Hells are you doing?"

"I'm packing, obviously," Ned answered.

Bringing his hands on his hips, Arryn snorted.

"You can't go. What would your departure look like?" he asked Eddard.

"I'm heading to Storm's End, to rescue Robert's brother. In my opinion, it looks like a damn good deed. Mace Tyrell besieges Storm's End for months and young Stannis must be exhausted."

"We have men to deal with Mace Tyrell. I can send-"

"I don't care who you can send," Eddard cut him off. "I won't stay here more than necessary. You wanted me to gather the Northern host, I did it. You wanted me to win battles for Robert, I did it. You wanted me to let you play your little games with Tywin Lannister? Tywin Lannister is all yours. I warned you about this man and his house, you wouldn't listen to me, so now leave me alone."

In the untidy room, the air was thick with a heavy and dangerous tension.

"Why are you mad at me?" Arryn rasped.

"I'm not mad at you. I just understood I was wrong about you. Robert and you are tired of the search for Lyanna. Actually, I'm waiting for Lord Varys to give me more information about the place where she could be. Lord Varys! Aerys' creature! Your silence and lack of interest for my sister forced me to seek his help."

Arryn took a step forward and shut the door carefully. For a fleeting moment, Ned saw on his weary face the same concern Arryn showed every time he was sick or wounded, then the impassible mask came back.

"We need you here," he said, swallowing hard.

"I doubt that very much. But I know Stannis needs me."

"And what is this stupid idea of hanging around with Howland Reed?" Arryn spat. "He's a Crannogman! If you really want to befriend with someone, why don't you chose a Northerner like Manderly or Umber?"

"Last time I checked, the Reeds were Northerners."

"Oh, please, Ned, you know what I mean. Can't you choose some warrior, instead of that frog-eater who annoys everyone with his silly premonitions?"

Still kneeling by his chest, Ned slammed the lid so abruptly the clack made Arryn jump and before any of them could express their anger, Howland opened the door and froze. The Crannogman had donned his leather boiled armor to face the ride that awaited them, and even with his thick outfit, he looked skinny. He swept the messy room until he found Eddard's furious gaze and he cleared his throat.

"I heard-" he began in a faltering tone. "Well, it doesn't matter... I'll be waiting for you in the corridor, Eddard."

As quickly as he had come in, he stepped back and closed the door, leaving Arryn and his former ward alone. The room went silent again and Eddard picked the furs lying on the tiles, dusted them and eventually put them into the chest. When he stood up, he locked eyes with Arryn, whose saddened expression struck him.

"I'm done here," Eddard mumbled.

Later, that day, he crossed the gates protecting the Red Keep from the hovels and smoking ruins of the city without ever looking back; the sky was lowering on the East and the dark grey clouds would bring rain showers on the Stormlands, but Eddard felt relieved. He was leaving the capital and its court intrigues, heading to a place where someone needed his help; he was riding with chosen companions. On his right side, Howland seemed pleased enough to finally relax on his new mount, and the column of Northerners who had volunteered to rescue Stannis hummed songs reminding them of their homeland. _Next turn of the moon, and we'll return to King's Landing. And Varys will tell me where is Lyanna._

* * *

"Storm's End has never fallen to any siege or storm," Howland said, trying to keep pace with Eddard's horse.

He smiled; Howland had always stories of all kind about every place in the Seven Kingdoms. On the road to King's Landing, he had told him almost everything about Aegon's arrival in the Crownlands. _But Aegon is gone_, he thought. _And so are his descendants, including the little Aegon._

"You know that the castle is protected by spells, of course?" Howland asked.

"Said spells would shield Stannis and his men from Mace Tyrell's forces, according to you?" Eddard answered, a skeptical grin on his face.

Howland rolled his eyes.

"You're too rational, Ned. I'm trying to reassure you. We'll see the castle as soon as we reach the top of the hill."

The rocky landscape had slowed down their progression, making Eddard more anxious about what they would find in Storm's End.

"It's about time!" he told Howland. "Stannis and Benjen are almost the same age; I would never leave my little brother facing a siege in Winterfell for months before sending him some help."

His accusation was directed at Robert and Howland probably thought he was going too far, for he reached out and put his gloved hand on Eddard's forearm. When he turned his head, Ned noticed Howland's knowing look and he sighed heavily. _I know some of my men may be listening, but that's the truth: Robert led his men, won battles and took the Iron Throne, but he never lifted the little finger for Stannis._

The vanguard stopped on the top of the hill and Eddard took the spyglass he kept in his saddle-bag. Despite the uneven surface of the lens that gave him a blurred vision, what he saw was not as disastrous as he expected.

Under the dark clouds, the black and red banners of House Targaryen and the Tyrell sigil with a golden rose on a green field, were visible at the foot of the castle. _Not on the battlements. It's not too late. _He thought the news of the Sack had come to the Stormlands, bringing hope to the besieged troops and disheartening the attackers.

Eddard swiveled and looked behind him: on the coastal path, a long line of men, some mounted and some on foot, stretched to the nearest hill. _The previous battles have tired them out: if only one charge of our horsemen could defeat Mace Tyrell's forces..._ He put his spyglass back in the saddle-bag and hurtled down the hill; straight ahead, he could see the headland where the first Storm King had built the castle. On both sides of the only path leading to the fortress, the wind-battered cliffs prevented any landing – but didn't allow the attackers to escape by sea, now that the Northern host was here. Most of the men Tyrell commanded were gathered below the outer curtain wall, and only a small group guarded the road. _They saw us, they guess we outnumber them._

From the foot of the hill, he noticed a sudden agitation among the soldiers who blocked off the road; the tiny silhouette of a horseman left them and cantered to the Targaryen encampment. Eddard stopped his troops and gave orders so that his men readied themselves for the impending fight. Howland came back quickly after warning the Crannogmen and he positioned his mare next to Eddard's horse.

"Are they going to attack us or will they wait for us to charge?" Howland asked.

"I don't know yet."

In the distance, he sensed the last Targaryen forces' nervousness: men gesturing and probably shouting, though the gusts of wind blew away their words. _They disagree._ Around Eddard, the Northerners adjusted their mailed gloves and put on their helmets; no need to turn around to know that the archers and crossbowmen were preparing their weapons too. In these moments before a battle, time seemed to stretch out, trying the men's patience and unnerving the younger members of the host. Eddard felt as tense as the bowstring the archers drew. It wasn't until he gave a ragged exhale that he noticed he had been holding his breath for some time.

"Let's go," Eddard said, motioning the Northern cavalry forward.

_They need to know we're ready to charge. _As far as he knew, Tyrell was a capable man and a skilled warrior. Rumormongers said that he had exaggerated his role during the Battle of Ashford and that it was Randyll Tarly, in command of the royalist vanguard, who had won the fight, but despising Tyrell would be foolish. A man who besieged an impregnable fortress for months couldn't be underestimated.

The Northern cavalry Eddard led had barely covered half the distance between the foot of the hill and the group of men blocking the path when all the Targaryen banners fell to the ground. Ned pulled the reins and shouted, until the last horsemen stopped. Most of the Northerners were within range of the Targaryen bows. As he tried to catch his breath, he thought the whole scene was uncanny: the cavalry hurtling down the slope, hurrying to the path surrounded by rocky cliffs and suddenly stopping fifty yards before the roadblock. The crashing of the waves added to the eerie feeling that took hold of Eddard.

The Northerners gathered around him and began to observe the miserable Targaryen troops; their supply lines had been cut before the Sack, when Aerys tried to reorganize his forces and to protect the capital, and they had most likely run out of food, if their gaunt faces were any indication. Their cloaks, damp with sea spray, hung on their shoulders and made them look pitiable. Behind them, a group of mounted men who seemed as exhausted as the soldiers who blocked the road, slowly approached. Among them, Eddard spotted a young brown-haired man, who looked probably handsome when he lived in his castle and ate his fill. _Mace Tyrell._

The commander of the Targaryen forces didn't flinch when he stopped in front of Eddard; he just swallowed hard and slightly nodded, letting everyone know the siege was over.

Whether Stannis watched the scene from the battlements of Storm's End or not, Ned couldn't tell, but all he knew was that this was the end of Stannis' ordeal and that he was himself grateful to the Gods: the Northerners wouldn't have to fight that day, and relief flooded him.

* * *

The storms so frequent in this place and the vicinity of the raging waters – the Shipbreaker Bay didn't usurp his reputation – had forced the builders to some adjustments and the windows breaking the monotony of the dark thick walls were long and narrow. They brought a bleak light in the Great Hall, where Stannis welcomed Ned, Howland and the Bannermen of the North who had rescued the seat of House Baratheon.

Ned thought his heart would sink the moment he would see Stannis, because Robert's brother was so young he could only remind him of Benjen, because he had had his share of worries and hardships during the last months but he didn't expect to find a boy whose sullen mood bordered on coldness.

Stannis was sitting on the dais, at one end of the Great Hall, very straight in the high-backed chair the lords of Storm's End had used for decades. Hands gripping the armrests, he seemed both tired and jaded as the Northerners came in and stood before him. Robert's brother thanked them politely, yet in a distant tone, then asked Eddard if they could talk in private. On his way to the solar, Ned met Howland's puzzled look and followed the lanky boy who had held out on Mace Tyrell for months.

_Once in the solar, he won't have to pretend anymore_, Eddard thought. _He'll become again the boy I met during the Tourney at Harrenhal._ No matter how hard he tried to stay confident, his hopes crumbled when Stannis closed the door behind them and asked bluntly:

"You did this of your own free will, right, Eddard? Robert didn't send you."

Ned was at a loss. He felt like he couldn't indulge in lying to Stannis, yet he didn't want to cause a quarrel between the Baratheon siblings. _Another quarrel._ Whenever Robert evoked his brothers, he always mocked Renly's childish behavior and he ranted on about Stannis' fussiness. More than often, he complained about their repeated arguments in Storm's End.

"Don't lie to me," Stannis went on, neither angry nor annoyed. "And forget about your loyalty towards Robert. Being the new king doesn't allow him to let his brother and the garrison he left in Storm's End starve to death."

A servant bringing in mulled wine gave Ned enough time to find the right answer – both wine and spices had come with the Stark host, as a present for the brave defenders of Storm's End. Gesturing to an armchair and settling himself on a bench seat, Stannis clutched the cup between his hands, enjoying the warmth that it emitted.

"King Robert was about to send troops," Eddard said, after burning his tongue while drinking the hot beverage. "I simply preempted-"

"About to send troops?" Stannis chuckled darkly. "Your sense of compromise is insulting, Eddard. I am not a child anymore and I can see Robert's little game. My brother started this war to find the woman he loved and – don't take it personally – along the way, he realized he could get more than a dishonored girl abducted by Rhaegar. The Iron Throne. Anyway, Robert is consumed by his fantasies of greatness; he forgot why this war began. But even before, he had forgotten he had a brother. And loyal soldiers too, defending his home against the Targaryen troops. He never answered to the ravens I sent him. And stop calling him 'King Robert'; we both know that my brother's attitude is not regal. Robert will always be Robert."

Eddard remained silent, astonished by the boy's clear-sightedness; despite his surprise, he felt the urge to explain why he was here, eager to clear up any misunderstanding.

"During the siege, you had enough time to mull over the situation and I don't want you to misjudge your brother or to praise me for bad reasons," he told Stannis. "Don't imagine that I left King's Landing with the idea of lifting the siege of Storm's End and becoming a hero. I _needed_ to quit the capital."

Stannis observed him wordlessly. As the castle had run out of candles since weeks, only the narrow windows provided light in the solar, and the lack of luminosity emphasized the boy's dark circles.

"Well, I thank you for your outspokenness," Stannis replied after a while. "When you said you _needed_ to leave King's Landing, does it mean Robert sent you away?"

"Robert wanted me to stay, as a matter of fact. I decided to leave because... I'm not interested in politics."

Stannis' expression changed and curiosity gave way to disbelief. He slightly shook his head.

"If you don't see to politics, someday politics will see to you, Eddard."

It sounded like an old man's advice and Ned shuddered at the thought that Stannis may be right. _Am I making a mistake when I only think of going back North?_ For a few heartbeats, he imagined himself withering in King's Landing, spending his time in Arryn's shadow: these days, when he was a docile ward in the Eyrie, were gone.

"What about Lord Tyrell?" Stannis asked. "What did my kingly brother decide?"

"If he fought back, Arryn said we had to kill him and his men," Eddard replied. "If he yielded, though..."

Neither Arryn nor Robert had uttered a word about that, probably because they expected Tyrell to die fighting. For lack of any instruction, the Northerners and the garrison of Storm's End had locked Mace Tyrell and his officers in the dungeons, before trying to organize an encampment where the Targaryen soldiers would wait for their fate; the archers, crossbowmen and lancers would most likely join the new royal army. _Robert needs them._

"Send a raven to your brother and ask him what to do with Tyrell," Eddard advised him. "I suppose Robert will demand that Tyrell make amends and keep a low profile... But I don't think your brother will cut his head; House Tyrell has held the Reach for centuries. No need to lose another part of the Seven Kingdoms. Robert already turned away the Dornishmen when he refused to punish the men who murdered the last Targaryens. The Martell won't forgive Robert for Elia's murder."

Seemingly fascinated, Stannis scooted to the edge of his seat.

"Are you telling me that you, the man whose sister was abducted by Rhaegar Targaryen, you asked Robert to kill Elia's murderers?"

Eddard observed the youth for a while, then nodded. His palms turned to the ceiling, Stannis shrugged in disbelief.

"I didn't have any liking for Elia Martell, I barely met her," Eddard explained. "But is it fair that two murderers who openly admitted their crimes go unpunished?"

Stannis thoughtfully looked back at him.

"I agree with you, Eddard. If I had been in King's Landing instead of rotting in this place, I would have backed you. Do you know what I decided about Davos Seaworth, the smuggler who slipped through the Redwyne's fleet line and therefore saved us from starvation?"

Ned slightly shook his head; despite the semi darkness, he noticed Stannis' feverish gaze.

"I suppose you rewarded him for his help," he offered.

Robert's brother locked eyes with him.

"I knighted him and I gave him lands on Cape Wrath because you would have found the Targaryen banners on Storm's End, without his help. Then I ordered one of my men to cut off the first joint from each finger of his left hand, because no feat could pay for his past crimes."

Eddard clenched his jaw, wondering what to say. In the absence of his elder brother, Stannis had forged his own moral code – at odds with Robert's pragmatism – and he had clung to his duties to endure the hardships of the siege, until the last bits of his innocence disappeared. _Benjen could have turned into a sullen, bitter person during my wandering in the South_, he mused. _I should hurry and go back North to take care of my brother before he becomes as cold and hardened as Stannis. But before, I'll find Lyanna._

* * *

Eddard's impatience grew with every league, on their way back to King's Landing; every night, when he visited his men in the encampment, he saw their tired faces and noticed their exhaustion, but at daylight, when the column stretched between the hills of the Stormlands, he champed at the bit, wondering why they progressed at such a slow pace. In the end, he sent a raven to Lord Varys and asked if he had found out where Lyanna was.

_The Spider will learn something about her; she didn't disappear without a trace._ He tried to reassure himself and Howland's soothing presence became as necessary as the air he breathed. Two days after he sent the raven, he got his answer. The maester who accompanied their host was untying the message to the bird's leg when he nearly threw himself on the old man after dismounting his horse. Ned had left the head of the column as soon as he had seen the raven flying over them and he had turned around, before cantering to the cart where the maester kept his equipment and the birdcages.

"Should we stop?" asked one of the Manderlys, when he saw Eddard.

"No!" he shouted, "Go on! I'll catch up with the vanguard as soon as I'll know what's in this message."

While his assistant shoved the raven in a birdcage, the maester held out to Eddard the scroll.

"_Lord Stark,_

_My little birds finally located your sister. As far as I know, Rhaegar Targaryen left her in a keep named the Tower of Joy and some of the most loyal friends of the late Prince guard her. She's alive..."_

He didn't need to read what followed. _At least. _Hot tears burned the corner of his eyes as he remembered Lyanna's laughter echoing in the staircases of Winterfell, her face framed with dark hair. He remained silent and perfectly still for a moment, then noticed the curious looks of his men.

"She's alive," he simply said.

Any precision was superfluous. The word spread in the column and the Northerners began to rejoice themselves, then a hush fell over the men. Lyanna might be alive, but they all knew she had probably been dishonored and rescuing her wouldn't change anything to that. _Am I ready to find her broken? Will I be able to help her? _Mindlessly, Eddard crumpled the message; disheartened, he led his horse to the vanguard.

"There's another bird!" the maester's assistant bellowed.

The young man hurried to catch the raven and brought it proudly to Eddard, despite the maester's protestations. Eddard fumbled with the scroll this time, while his horse went on, keeping pace with the maester's cart. He didn't identify the sigil at first, probably because two different kinds of wax had been used; under the sigil of House Arryn, he recognized the deep blue wax used in Riverrun. _The message arrived in King's Landing first, before Arryn sent it to me_, he thought, as an unexpected pressure constricted his chest. Unfolding the scroll, he recognized Lord Hoster Tully's sloping handwriting.

"_Lord Stark,_

_I have the great pleasure to inform you that your lady wife, my dear daughter Catelyn, is with child..."_

The message slipped from his hands and fell on the ground where the maester's assistant diligently picked it up. Walking by Eddard's horse, the assistant called his lord, but never managed to got any reply.

* * *

**Sandor**

Ser Jaime Lannister's golden curls almost formed a halo around his head, contrasting with the dark color of the high-backed chair he was sitting in; a wide smile spread on his handsome features as he observed Sandor who stood in front of him, trying not to gape.

"Ser Jaime," he said politely, wondering what the Kingslayer wanted with him.

Tywin's son had invited Sandor in the Kingsguard's quarters and he had let him enough time to examine the large bedroom furnished with mahogany chairs and table and ancient weapons adorning the walls, before he started talking.

"Have you heard of the Mad King's plan to burn the city?" Jaime asked. "The wildfire, prepared by the Alchemists' Guild and hidden in caches throughout King's Landing? Of course, you have. Father told me you heard about it during his meeting with King Robert. Well, Varys' little birds reported that two pyromancers named Garigus and Belis escaped the Red Keep and now hide in the city. For some reason, Father told me to take you on this mission. Do you know why?"

His detached tone sounded a bit provocative, as if he wanted to test Sandor's reaction, but the boy knew better than to let some knight, even famous, impress him.

"Because I'm good at chasing people," he answered a bit too quickly.

Ser Jaime sneered. _He doesn't take me seriously._

"So you're good at chasing people?" he said, stammering in disbelief. "You seem so young... Who did you chase?"

"The plunderers. The two men King Robert hanged in Fishmonger's Square."

The blond knight leaned forward, a half-smile on his lips.

"You mean the poor bastards my father served up to King Robert, in order to save my head?"

Sandor didn't know the correct answer, and the memory of the two men swaying from the gallows pole was too fresh not to make his stomach churn; he therefore decided to avoid Jaime's question.

"Your lord father caught them stealing, ordered them to stop and to follow us. When they gave us the slip, I volunteered and I went after them. With Master Symon."

Jaime sat back and crossed his arms about his chest.

"I talked to the old Symon, Clegane. He said you're a resourceful... and surprising lad."

With that, he drummed his fingers on the table where he had left parts of his armor. Sandor found the jangling of the gorget against the greaves slightly annoying. _What did Symon tell him, exactly?_

"Done. You'll come with me, Clegane."

He looked at Ser Jaime and tried to remember what Fat Jeyne had told him about Tywin's children, when he was in Casterly Rock. _'There's something weird about the twins, Sandor. Never managed to find out what it was... The truth is, they believe they're different. They share some secret and no one, even in the castle, knows what it is. The twins take pleasure in that, they love the idea that no one knows except them. Whatever it is, this secret makes them believe they're superior.'_

He frowned. One who saw Ser Jaime or his sister Cersei – their blond hair, their noble features, their stately bearing – couldn't imagine their golden heads harbored a mystery. For some time, Sandor had pondered on Fat Jeyne's words, and thought the darkest secret Cersei could keep was the recipe of the ointment she used to keep her skin smooth. _Mayhap I was wrong and she's more than a lady obsessed by her looks._

Jaime pushed himself from his seat and began to check the pieces of armor on the table.

"We'll leave the castle as soon as we're ready," he announced, without ever looking at Sandor. "I'll meet you in front of the stables."

* * *

Chasing two men he imagined old, weak and unarmed, hiding in the biggest city of Westeros seemed strange. He did his best to conceal his increasing unease, as he left the room of the Maidenvault he shared with Master Symon, his long strides and the clang of his new armor arousing interest among the members of the Lannister host. Once in the inner yard the Sack had turned into a gigantic and messy encampment for the Lannister, Baratheon, Tully and Arryn troops – the departure of the Stark host to lift the siege of Storm's End barely helped and there were canvass tents everywhere – soldiers and idle Bannermen looked hard at him; he ignored them and he lengthened his stride until he reached the stables. Ser Jaime welcomed him with an approving nod.

"You look better with that armor than with the rusty equipment you wore when you arrived," he commented.

The young member of the Kingsguard made a flourish inviting Sandor to turn around so that he could see all the pieces of armor Sandor had bought in the upper part of the Street of Steel. Symon had helped him choose, and Sandor was rather proud of the armor he had picked; however, now that Ser Jaime made him spin on his heels, he felt like a stupid girl showing her new dress.

"Father says you still grow up. It's a pity that such a fine armor will be soon too small and too tight for you," Jaime sighed.

He was not very comfortable with the idea of Tywin talking about him with his son – _about my growth?_ – and he frowned. As they stayed in front of the stables, Sandor had to shield his gaze from the blinding sun.

"We're not here to talk about armors, are we?" he asked, then he wished he could take back his remark, so insolent towards his liege lord's son.

Jaime chuckled. There was something about him – his constant smile, his eyebrow raised, his haughty casualness – that warned people he might not be serious. _Or that he mocks us._ Jaime let his eyes fall away, a smile pulling the corner of his lips.

"We're waiting for Symon, boy. I told him to come with us. Three horsemen hurrying through the streets of King's Landing, chasing pyromancers, as if the demons of the Seven Hells had been let loose. Tell me, Clegane, how does it sound?"

Sandor shrugged. _He's a fool._ Symon finally showed up and they came in the stables to pick their horses Once on horseback, Sandor put his helmet on and followed Ser Jaime.

At the gates, when the young knight explained why they left the castle, the sentries didn't recognize Sandor. They saw the brand new armor, the sparkling greathelm, the fine stallion he mounted, but they didn't saw the scars anymore. He was just a squire Ser Jaime had chosen for his uncommon strength and skills. It felt strange to go unnoticed for a change, under a thin layer of steel. _My armor may reflect the sunbeams, it doesn't make me a knight in shining armor. Knights only exist in songs. It's just a lie commoners keep saying because they're buggers and because they like to delude themselves. And lords like it even more, because the stupid idea of a brave knight rescuing people justifies the power they have on smallfolk._

The gates opened and they entered the city. Its hustle and the rancid smell of the streets made him feel dizzy. Beggars and peddlers swarmed about the gates and they soon gathered around the three horsemen, some identifying Jaime and gesturing at him. Once more, the blond knight laughed, while Sandor tried to avoid the tiresome men and women; his horse's hooves slipped on the wet and dirty cobblestones.

"Where are we going to?" he shouted, the beggars' supplications half-covering his high-pitched voice.

"Where would you go, if you were an alchemist on the run?" Jaime retorted, leading his horse through the ragged crowd and seemingly enjoying the commoners' attention.

Jaime smiled at a toothless old woman who held out her hand in a begging gesture, then headed straight ahead to the nearest street.

"To the Guildhall of the Alchemists?" Symon suggested.

As they arrived in the street facing the gates, Sandor had to prick up his ears to hear his companions despite the noise.

"Certainly not!" Jaime answered, greeting a girl who stared at them from her balcony.

The young woman coyly smiled back and leaned against the guardrail, revealing the top of her breasts. Jaime swiveled on his saddle to look at her and bowed theatrically, to the girl's great pleasure. _He just knows how to play the game_, Sandor mused. The realization sent a pang of jealousy in his chest, before he felt Jaime's eyes on his figure.

"Do you intend to spend the day with your greathelm on?" he asked Sandor while pulling the reins so that the squire could catch up with him.

Sandor reluctantly lifted the visor of his helmet, holding onto the idea that, even without the piece of metal hiding his nose and cheeks, his scars were barely visible. _Maybe I should wear it the next time I go to the brothel._

"So where are we going to?" he insisted, narrowing his gaze.

"Why don't you take a wild guess, boy?" Jaime teased him. "Since you're good at chasing people."

Sandor pulled the reins at the end of the street they were in; Jaime followed suit and Symon, turned around to join them as soon as he saw they had stopped.

"The men we're looking for... Do they have family in King's Landing?" he asked Jaime.

The young member of the Kingsguard shook his head.

"As far as I know, Garigus and Belis don't know anyone here."

"So they probably hide in some inn and we're going to check every tavern of the city?" Sandor said.

"You're right, boy! We'd better start right now, for there are lots of places to visit."

"That's something the Gold Cloaks should do!" Symon protested, imagining the number of taverns they would have to search.

"How can I put it, Symon?" Jaime sighed. "The ancient and noble organization of the Gold Cloaks has known some difficulties lately, since my dear father's arrival in King's Landing. It seems that the City Watch has been... decimated. King Robert appointed a new Commander who recruits and trains soldiers, but in the meanwhile, we'll do their job."

A smug smile on his face, Jaime led his horse to the junction of three streets.

"Wait a minute!" Sandor exclaimed, immediately ashamed by the commanding tone he had used with Tywin's son. "We should visit all the jewelers' shops and ask the usurers, instead of searching the taverns."

"Why in Seven Hells should we do that?"

"Because they were in a hurry when they escaped the Red Keep," Sandor explained. "When you're on the run you don't take any chest of gold, if you have one. So they took jewels or precious items they found in the castle and could hide under their clothes, and now they'll try to sell these things, especially if they want to fly from the capital."

Jaime puckered up his full lips, slightly nodding his head. _Is he skeptical or does he agree with me?_

"The boy is right," Symon rasped.

"Sounds like you already planned your evasion," the blond knight commented, laughing.

Stone-faced under his greathelm, Sandor didn't move and held his stare. Symon cleared his throat loudly, as if he wanted to warn Jaime it was a slippery matter. _The clothes and boots I wore were the only things I took from Clegane's Keep, the day I ran away._ He shifted nervously on his saddle and clutched to the pommel, trying to regain his composure. The young man seemed to realize his blunder and went serious.

"You're very observant. Uncle Gerion told me that," he said, by way of apologies. "We're going to Coppersmith's Wynd."

* * *

In the usurers shop, the musty smell made the Kingslayer wrinkle his nose. Symon stayed outside with the horses, observing the surroundings while Jaime and Sandor came in to question the usurer. As a matter of fact, there were two men sitting behind a small table, talking quietly. Sandor didn't understand what the men said, and guessed it was Valyrian.

As the only opening was small, darkness engulfed the room in shades of brown, but a tallow candle burning on the small table lit up the usurers. One had deep wrinkles and a grey beard, while the other one was smooth-faced; both had the same piercing gaze under shaggy eyebrows and a rugged jaw line. _A father and his son, living and working together. _He remembered how the servants kept repeating he looked like Lord Clegane, before he got his scars; neighbors and customers told this young man he was the spitting image of his father, and he probably didn't care about it. _Bugger. He doesn't know how lucky he is. _As Jaime stopped in front of the table, Sandor felt his fingers slowly curl into balled fists.

"Welcome, Sers. How can we help you?" the son asked with a hint of foreign accent, while standing up.

Perhaps they had recognized Jaime, for the father hastily got on his feet and gave him a nervous bow. A Lannister paying a visit to an usurer was both unexpected and ironic.

"We have a few questions about your customers," Jaime announced. "Did you notice something strange since King Robert's arrival? Something unusual?"

The two men looked at each other, confused. The greybeard asked his son a question in Valyrian and his son immediately turned to Jaime.

"My father asks what you mean by 'strange', Ser."

"A man, rather old, looking like he was going to shit his pants, trying to sell jewels or plates," Jaime explained.

After the Sack, some servants of the Red Keep had reported that the precious tableware Aerys used had disappeared and Jaime had made the connection after Sandor suggested to ask the jewelers and moneylenders. Another muttering in Valyrian forced a smile out of the young knight; he sensed that, after several inconclusive visits in jeweler's shops, they would finally learn something.

Without any warning, Jaime took the purse hanging from his belt and put it down on the table. Hearing the coins jingling, the two men briefly turned to look at the heavy purse, then went on talking. The young knight crossed his arms about his chest and sighed.

"Boredom should always be noisy and demonstrative," he confessed, glancing at Sandor.

"Well, Ser... Such a man came here..." the young man answered.

In the meanwhile, his father extended his arm to take the gold Jaime had left on the table, but the knight's commanding tone stopped him before he could reach the purse.

"Don't be so hasty, old man. I want proofs."

Once more the usurer and his son exchanged a puzzled look, before turning to Jaime. The father touched the young man's arm in an approving gesture and let him go in the back shop. During his son's absence, he stared at Jaime, then at Sandor, caressing his beard and very solemn in his patched tunic. The young man came back with a purse bigger than Jaime's and deftly untied the strings. Then, with a sigh, he emptied the purse on the table, near the tallow candle.

Sandor gaped. A brooch and a golden chain had landed on the worm-eaten table with a jangling sound. The chain's thick links imitated a rope. The brooch depicted the Targaryen sigil, with its tiny rubies forming a three-headed dragon standing out against obsidian. Jaime turned to Sandor, a triumphant smile on his face, then locked eyes with the usurer.

"What did that man look like?" he asked, stepping forward so that he almost towered above the old man who had sat down again behind the table.

"Well..." the young man replied, glancing at the purse. "He was smaller than you, with a short beard... His hair and beard were white."

"Belis," Jaime whispered. "What happened?"

"He said he wanted to sell these jewels and my father gave him a good price."

"It goes without saying," Jaime commented, his voice exuding contempt and irony.

"Then the man walked away and he disappeared."

"But where did he go?" the blond knight insisted.

He glared at the usurers, disappointed by their lack of cooperation.

"We don't know," the old man said firmly, stressing the last word.

It sounded like it was the only sentence he knew in the Common Tongue.

"Was he afraid?" Sandor asked abruptly.

As he had been quiet from the beginning, his question surprised the usurers and Jaime. They all turned to him.

"Did you see him in the neighborhood before his visit or after he came?"

The old man shook his head while his son observed Sandor carefully.

"The man seemed rather... nervous," he said, visibly looking for words. "We had never seen him before that day and we didn't see him since he sold these jewels. He came yesterday."

"When he entered your shop, was he breathless? Or sweating streams?" Sandor asked again.

"No. I don't remember he was sweating."

The young man's eyes fell on the purse again, but Jaime was quicker and seized it.

"I'm afraid that's not enough information, my good fellow. Maybe I'll change my mind if we get hold of this man, but meanwhile I'll save my gold for someone else."

He spun on his heels and went to the door, leaving the two usurers frustrated. Sandor followed in Jaime's footsteps. Outside, Symon welcomed them with impatience and expectation in his eyes; all this vanished when the master-at-arms noticed Jaime's discomfiture.

"Belis was here," Jaime explained, chuckling darkly, "but those fools don't know where he's hiding. Why don't usurers ask questions to their customers?"

"Probably because they are usurers, Ser," Symon offered, patting his horse's neck.

"And what were those questions about a breathless Belis?" Jaime asked Sandor, frowning.

"If you had soldiers after you – including a member of the Kingsguard – would you choose to walk half an hour in the streets or would you go to the nearest moneylender's shop? Would you take your time or would you walk as quickly as you can?"

Sandor's reasoning seemed to convince Jaime, who slightly nodded his head.

"He's not very far," Symon rasped. "We should examine the neighborhood with a fine-tooth comb."

* * *

There were half-a-dozen taverns in the streets surrounding the usurer's shop; they searched each one, Jaime asking questions to the owner and one of his companions coming in with him while the other one stayed outside. Symon and Sandor silently agreed on escorting Jaime to the tavern one after the other.

As they visited the fourth tavern – a timber frame house with its façade on the street and the gable on a back alley – it was Sandor's turn to wait in the street, keeping a close eye on their horses. The Sack had been an ordeal for the inhabitants, not only because of the violence they had suffered that day; the destruction and fires had ruined the population, disorganizing handicraft and trade, forcing the poorest fringe to beg and to pilfer. The fine horses of the royal stables, even after exhausting weeks spent on the roads of the realm were tempting for them, and Sandor didn't want one of the animals to end up in a bowl of brown.

All of a sudden, a throaty scream inside the tavern startled him. Then there were more shouting and Sandor wondered if he should come in and help his companions, though Jaime had forbidden him to move away from the horses. When he heard more noise on the third floor of the timber frame tavern, his eyes scrutinized the façade, trying to understand what was going on and if Jaime or Symon were in danger.

"Here he is!" Symon exclaimed.

The master-at-arms' raspy voice came from an open window of the third floor.

"He escaped!" Jaime bellowed in frustration and Sandor immediately spotted an old man bestriding the guard rail of a balcony in the back alley and trying to reach the window of the house across the back alley; it was not completely reckless, even for a man of his age, as the balcony nearly touched the building across the narrow street.

Forgetting Jaime's orders to stay near the horses, Sandor ran to the front door of the house where the pyromancer had sneaked in and he took two steps at a time in the wobbly staircase; he nearly shoved a little girl, but when he heard shouting and protestations on the third floor, he understood that his prey had accidentally met the house's inhabitants.

Sandor violently pushed open the door, leaving it swinging back and forth on its hinges. From where he was, he saw a woman threatening the alchemist with a poker; a child hung on tightly to her ragged skirts while an old man, older than the pyromancer and probably ill, was lying on a pallet.

"Who are you?" the woman asked Sandor, glancing at him, but still keeping the intruder at bay.

"The king sent us to catch this man. He's... a criminal."

Despite the fact that Jaime seemed to burden himself with the pyromancers' arrest instead of following Robert's orders, Sandor thought preferable not to give her details. Sensing the woman's hesitation was perhaps his only chance, the bearded man stepped forward; she threw herself on him and struck him with the poker; despite his arms raised in a protective gesture, the pyromancer couldn't avoid the blow. The woman missed his head but her makeshift weapon landed on his forearm with an awful noise. The alchemist fell on the floor, screaming, while Sandor subdued the woman: she flailed at first, then stopped moving and dropped the poker.

Still holding her firmly, he noticed the fine lines on her stubborn forehead; she might be still young, but hardships had left their marks on her face. Around him, he saw what most of the inhabitants of King's Landing worked for: a small room, with two windows and its quasi-absent furniture. There was a fireplace near the pallet, with scorched vegetables in a blackened pot. The only ornament was a big green stain on the white washed ceiling, because the roof leaked. That detail reminded him of a saying in the Westerlands: 'rain always falls harder on a leaking roof'. Sandor wondered how they managed to live there. _They live on the brink of destitution_, he thought. _No, they barely survive._ The little boy he had seen hanging on his mother's skirts was now huddling up against the old man's side, and his feverish gaze told Sandor that these people didn't eat their fill.

He let go of the woman, who stared at his armor and immediately gave him a sheepish look.

"I didn't know, Ser. Forgive my-"

"I'm no Ser," he answered curtly, wondering how he could help them and realizing that there was nothing he could do.

She took in his face – partly hidden by the greathelm – and gaped when she noticed how young he was.

"Thank you for protecting us from-" she said tentatively, pushing aside her jet-black hair.

"Don't thank me," he replied a bit more stiffly than he intended. "Seems that you protect yourself very well."

He grabbed the alchemist's shoulder and forced him to stand up; the man whimpered softly and hardly struggled as they left the small room to go downstairs. Sandor looked up before reaching the second floor and he saw the dark-haired woman observing him with a curious gaze. _She's a fool_, he thought. _We don't protect anyone, we just let them live their miserable life and look at them struggling for food in a half-ruined city.  
_

Sandor shoved the alchemist out of the building, then inside the tavern where Jaime and Symon waited for him. The customers had deserted the place and the owner stared at them from the kitchens, instinctively putting as much space between himself and Jaime as possible.

"How did you do?" Symon asked him, glancing at the pyromancer's broken arm.

Sandor shrugged and kicked the old man so that he fell on his hands and knees, crying and begging.

"Too late, Wisdom Belis," Jaime announced, stepping forward.

He had unsheathed his sword – one of the most beautiful weapons Sandor had ever seen, though he found it a bit too sophisticated for real fights – and the blade was covered with blood.

"No! Ser Jaime, please... Listen to me!"

The alchemist's protestations sounded like the squeak of a mouse.

"I- I have gold," he stuttered, trying to sit up and looking at his captors one after the other. "I have gold upstairs. Spare me and you'll be rich."

Still holding his sword, Jaime raised one eyebrow in disbelief.

"Remember me, Belis? I am a Lannister. I am as rich as can be."

His way of articulating words was almost precious when he expressed his contempt, as if he took his time and enjoyed this feeling. _And his voice is soft, when he addresses someone he despises, like Tywin's._

"Your proposition is nearly an insult," Jaime added.

A desperate look in his eyes, Belis didn't seem to understand his words.

"I have gold," he repeated, pleading.

"And I have steel," Jaime replied, leaning over the miserable pyromancer and stabbing him.

It all happened very quickly, Jaime's left hand seizing the old man while his sword dug deeply in his chest. The man who wanted to destroy King's Landing with wildfire collapsed on the floor and Jaime removed hastily his blade from Belis' torso before wiping it.

"As I said," he shouted to the owner, "I'll send someone with a cart to take the corpses and bring them back to the Red Keep. Don't move the bodies. How did you catch him, resourceful boy?" the blond knight said, turning to Sandor, before walking to the door.

Sandor still looked at the alchemist's dead body; Symon patted his shoulder and led him outside. Jaime's deep green eyes insisted and Sandor complied.

"I didn't really catch him," he explained. "Belis sneaked in a room where there was a woman, a child and an old man. The woman was threatening him when I came in. She broke his arm. I just prevented her from killing him."

"Surprising wench," Jaime commented, straddling his horse. "Was she to your liking?"

"I don't know," Sandor mumbled, making both his companions laugh.

"Do you know what happened upstairs?" Jaime went on, as they led their horses through the dirty streets. "These fools had stayed together. At first, they thought of taking different paths, but Belis was a coward and he finally stayed with Garigus, according to him. Anyway, they arrived together in this tavern, asked for separate rooms and always ate upstairs. The owner was growing curious about them and they would have moved before tomorrow."

He went silent for a short while, as a palanquin sheltering two rich women moved past them.

"Garigus wept for mercy," Jaime added, with a faraway look. "I gave him a quick death, which was rather merciful, compared to his plan to burn down the city."

Jaime stopped talking, but Sandor wondered why; was it because a peddler sang and shouted to sell his fish or because he was not as proud of himself as his words conveyed? He couldn't tell.

* * *

Jaime insisted on telling Lord Tywin the good news. Sandor's master congratulated them and, after Jaime and Symon took leave, he gave the boy a purse full of stags, advising him to enjoy his time in King's Landing. Tywin suggested they wouldn't stay forever in the capital.

It was rather early in the night and Sandor decided to go back to Naya's pleasure house. Not that he tried to satisfy some need or endeavored to do what Tywin expected from him; he wanted to prove himself that he could go whoring and behave as a soldier. Sandor felt he had to do this, like a test proving he was as manly as anyone else in the host. _Nothing more._

Later that night, on his way back to the Red Keep, Sandor realized it was late when he saw the waning crescent moon high in the sky; most people were asleep or locked themselves in their houses. In the deserted streets, his footsteps echoed strangely and he found the silence comforting. _Silence is so rare in King's Landing._ For a fleeting moment, he fancied himself in the quiet woods surrounding Clegane's Keep, in the chestnut grove where he had spent hours during his childhood. When he closed his eyes, he could almost believe there were tall trees instead of the lopsided buildings: only the noise made by the soles of his boots against the cobblestones reminded him he was in the biggest city of Westeros and not in the secluded wood he loved so much when he was ten.

He dreamed of feats of arms and chivalry at that time. _I was a fool. I thought I could become as good a knight as Florian or Aemon the Dragonknight._ The forest was his refuge, his realm, and whenever someone disturbed the peacefulness of the chestnut grove, he knew it could only be Gregor, looking for him. _Tracking me, hunting me as if I was a prey._ He had learned to go unnoticed in the woods and to stay perfectly silent, hidden in the trees, while his brother lost his temper in the undergrowth. Most children in Westeros loved to play hide-and-seek with their siblings. Not Sandor. _For it was not a game._

The sentries let him cross the gates without asking any question now that he was known as Lord Tywin's squire and he made his way through the Tully tents sheltering soldiers of the Riverlands. As he progressed toward the Maidenvault, he heard people singing and laughing; as Talbert the drummer had said, there was another feast celebrating the so-called victories of the Lannister host.

He almost sneaked in to avoid the drunken men who would certainly ask him where he was and why he came back so late. Now that he had left the brothel, he wondered what Fat Jeyne would have said about his wanderings in the Street of Silk. _She's a fool as well. She behaved as if she could prevent all these things to happen to me, but she couldn't. The man who will make me a better person isn't born yet._

Once the biggest room of the Maidenvault and his noisy occupants were behind him, he relaxed his shoulders. It was only when he heard music and roaring laughs coming from an open door on his left that he realized there was more than one feast in the Maidenvault that night; he lengthened his stride.

"No, Clegane, please come!" a merry voice suddenly shouted as he walked past the door.

He stopped mid-stride, realizing it was Jaime; ignoring his liege lord's son was not an option. _Maybe I can just come in and stay in some corner, before escaping once they'll be in their cups._ He cautiously stepped in the vaulted room, where servants had brought trestles and benches. Apart from the musicians, there were only members of the noble families of the Westerlands, eating and drinking with Jaime. _At least, Gregor isn't here._ He noticed Lord Marbrand and a maid, engaged in heavy petting in the darkest corner of the room. Sandor stayed by the door, leaning against the wall, observing Jaime's guests, but the tipsy blond knight clearly wanted to draw attention on him.

Forgetting the flagons of wine he had knocked back, Jaime got on his feet and walked around the trestles to have a good look at Sandor; all the Bannermen's eyes were on him as he welcomed Sandor with a drunken grin. Tywin's son's golden curls stuck to his damp forehead.

"Where have you been, boy?" Jaime asked him. "We were waiting for you!"

If the contemptuous gaze of Lord Sarsfield and the sneering laugh escaping Lord Hamell were any indication, Jaime Lannister might be the only man of the assembly who really enjoyed his presence. Sandor shrugged and the raucous laughter went on.

"Dear friends," Jaime announced, turning to his guests and patting Sandor's shoulder, "I know some of you thought that he's young and inexperienced. I made the same mistake at first... But he has a good nose for certain things, he knows how to find a runaway, how to track him down."

One of the lords barked loudly, making the assembly laugh.

"Congratulations, boy!" another one exclaimed, apparently impressed.

"My lords, may I- may I present you the younger son of the late Lord Clegane," Jaime added, the heavy dose of alcohol he had drunk making him stammer.

Some men barked along, like their sons did in Casterly Rock whenever they wanted Sandor to get pissed. Jaime swayed and leaned on Sandor for fear of collapsing on the glazed tiles; then, the boy saw the blond knight's smile widened in anticipation of his next joke.

"May I introduce the young Clegane!" he shouted. "The boy who hunted down Aerys' creatures in King's Landing with me, who proved to be as gifted for hunting as the dogs of his sigil... My lords, I give you the Hound!"

Bewildered, Sandor turned to Jaime who patted his back and congratulated him. People had given him various names: 'Monster', 'Freak', 'Burnt boy' but no one had called him 'Hound' so far. In Jaime's mouth it could be either a good jape or the recognition of his skills; with his constant smile, nobody could tell.

"The Hound! The Hound!" the guests bellowed, slamming the table with their fists.

Sandor was at a loss, ignoring if it was an insult or a nickname, or both. All he knew was that once a member of the host earned a nickname, he kept it for years. _Might as well get used to it._

"The Hound! The Hound!"

With a mischievous smile, Jaime tousled his hair, nearly scratching the area behind his good ear. _Like a dog._

* * *

**Jon**

_The elephants should be an asset, not a burden._

The Tyroshi forces the Golden Company fought were a rather strange association between sellswords and the small army the city possessed. They had three dozens of turreted elephants; on the animals' tusks, the Tyroshi had put sharp points of brass. The red metal glimmered in the sun and threatened to impale anyone who was in their way. The loud trumpeting of elephants could have startled any soldier, except that the members of the Golden Company were not ordinary men.

As soon as their scouts had spotted the Tyroshi with their elephantry, Myles Toyne had asked Jon to prepare the impending battle and to take charge of the counterattack. The fact that Jon had seen elephants only once, in the menagerie of King's Landing, didn't bother the captain-general. _If he wants me to prove myself, I'll do it without ever asking a question._ Thus, Jon had tried to remember what he had read years ago in _The Life of the Triarch Belicho_. He knew the famous triarch of Volantis had once fought elephants, but the main difficulty was to recall how he had overpowered them. The Golden Company had been hired by Myr in the perpetual war for the Disputed Lands; a fair amount of gold was at stake and the Company couldn't afford a defeat.

Jon had spent the two days before the battle examining closely the resources of the Golden Company, thinking about traps for elephants and other devices. He soon forgot about traps – digging holes big enough to make the elephants fall in would be time-consuming and the success seemed uncertain – and turned to the lancers. If they closed ranks and managed to hurt the animals with their spears, they could face the Tyroshi. Jon therefore chose to stay with the lancers, even if the cavalry was far more respected, even in Essos, and commanded the foot soldiers Myles Toyne had positioned in front of the elephantry. What was about to happen would seal Jon's fate and make him either a remarkable officer or the embarrassment of the sellswords' company.

He sighed deeply, bathed in sweat under the gilded armor that was the officers' uniform. His horse had sensed his nervousness and whinnied from time to time, while the lancers readied to charge. In front of them, the gigantic beasts seemed determined to run over them: the massive figures merged with the mountain, their ornamented tusks being the only splotch of color in the greyish rows of the elephantry. The horn broke the heavy silence between the two armies and the rocky landscape of the Disputed Lands was soon filled with a deafening clamor.

While the cavalry of the Golden Company charged, the three dozens of elephants trumpeted again, more loudly this time, and they rushed forward, the ground shook under their footsteps and a dust cloud wrapped the monstrous animals.

"Don't move!" Jon shouted to the lancers. "Let them come!"

The lancers of the Golden Company were not like the brave, loyal, yet inexperienced troops he had under his command during the War of the Usurper; the Westerosi foot soldiers were often peasants or fishers recruited only weeks before. Elephants would have terrified them, while the mercenary lancers had seen many fights and therefore closed ranks.

Despite the furious charge of the elephants and the constant shouting of the elephant drivers, they stayed still and held tightly their weapons. Their spears were twenty-feet long and by the way the first three ranks held them, any enemy would impale himself on their sharp iron head, on the condition that they took the blow. What would happen when their spears would meet the elephants' massive body? Jon was not very confident.

"Now!" he screamed. "Make way for them!"

All of a sudden, the lancers stepped aside, letting some of the animals enter the lines of the Golden Company; understanding there was something wrong, the elephant drivers tried to stop their mounts, but it was too late. The charging beasts couldn't be stopped and Jon knew it was one of the weaknesses of war elephants.

On Jon's left, some lancers tried to resist the mass of grey flesh towering above them and pierced the animal's chest; a terrifying clamor resounded as the elephant shook his head, his trunk waving in the air, but in the end, the wounded beast mercilessly trampled on several men. However, behind him and the ranks of lancers, their revenge appeared as a group of crossbowmen and lancers who had volunteered to use javelins. At first, the crossbowmen fired the elephants, then the lancers ran toward them and threw their javelins, aiming their unprotected chest.

At this point, the impressive beasts had gone furious and out of control: no matter the efforts of their drivers – some shouted at their mounts, other pointlessly beat them with a stick – the elephants just tried to avoid the blows and to get back to their position, bringing chaos on the battlefield.

Jon led his horse to the last row of lancers, for it was time to deal the death-blow.

"Now!" he shouted, pointing at the elephants.

These men had left their spears and shields for a less noble weapon; two by two, they pushed forward the dozens of old carts Jon had bought in Myr, so that the elephants could not ignore the huge fire pots they carried. Filled with pitch, the pots had been set ablaze to terrify the beasts. After cursing because he couldn't recall how the triarch Belicho had gotten rid of legions of elephants, Jon had finally remembered this fact. _Hundreds of pages and countless hours spent reading this old book and finally one tiny detail will be helpful. If I knew how important it would be someday, I would have paid more attention while I studied it._

At the sight of the fire pots, the other elephants trumpeted again and tried to flee, despite their drivers protestations. One of the elephants collapsed on the ground, while reckless lancers threw themselves on his carcass to finish him off. His driver, thrust out of the turret, had landed on the dirt and didn't move anymore. Most of the men of the Golden Company, understanding things would be over soon, made way for the furious elephants and kept still, observing how their enemies' plan backfired. With every elephant trampling on the Tyroshi and their sellswords, Jon knew that they were closer to a significant victory. Myles Toyne probably enjoyed that sight. _And Rhaegar would have been impressed._

* * *

Under the shining canvas of the captain-general's tent, Jon suffocated. Myles Toyne, more than happy after their victory against Tyrosh in the Disputed Lands, had invited him to eat and to talk about Jon's future in the Golden Company.

Casually sitting on silk cushions, they ate the spicy local cuisine – stews and marinated meat so hot the Dornish food seemed tasteless in comparison – and Jon found himself drinking more than eating, but the flagons of wine didn't seem able to quench his thirst.

"It was brilliant," Toyne summed up after singing the praises of Jon's decisions during the battle. "Of course I expected you to be a remarkable officer, but when you joined us you seemed so-"

He stopped short of telling more, seemingly looking for the right word. _Desperate_, Jon thought. _The exact word would be 'desperate'._ He knew Myles Toyne could take umbrage of his faraway look and sullen face but sometimes he simply wasn't strong enough to pretend.

"Can I ask you a question?" Jon said, still avoiding the captain-general's gaze. "Did you- did you ever lose a battle that meant so much you wanted to die?"

Toyne stayed silent for a few heartbeats, running his big hand through his hair.

"People said this damn city was a trap," he finally told Jon. "With Robert's forces hidden inside the walls and the Stark host at the gates, you were not supposed to leave Stoney Sept alive. Yet you retreated in good order."

Jon chuckled darkly, putting aside his silver goblet before spilling some green nectar of Myr the Magisters of the city had given to the Golden Company.

"If only the king had seen the battle through your eyes..." he answered, his nervous laughter still shaking him. "Do you know why King Aerys choose me?"

Myles Toyne poured some more wine in his own goblet, after Jon politely refused.

"The king knew your skills and he needed a change after this bungler he called his Hand," the captain-general replied.

"I brewed over his decision for days and nights," Jon explained, wiping beads of sweat on his forehead. "It didn't make sense. At first, I thought Prince Rhaegar had whispered my name in his father's ear, then I learned that my promotion was Lord Varys' idea."

He sighed deeply, hoping that the pressure of the battle would go away, but Jon knew the pressure he had felt because of the threatening presence of the elephants was nothing compared to the weight he had on his shoulders since the day of Stoney Sept. That feeling, a mix of guilt, shame and loss, would last until his death and follow him like his own shadow.

"The bloody Spider had the idea, but Aerys needed a good reason to agree."

"Like I said," Myles Toyne offered, "he was aware of your skills."

"I doubt that. What he wanted was a new Tywin Lannister. He would have named Lord Tywin, if he could and somehow he should have. Tywin Lannister would have won the Battle of the Bells. He would have killed Robert. Not himself, like I wanted to – a terrible mistake, now I see it – but he would have gotten rid of Robert."

The tent remained silent for a while and the only noise Jon heard was the footsteps of the men outside and the gloomy cries of night birds.

"And tell me how Tywin Lannister would have won this battle you lost so miserably," Toyne said with a challenging tone.

That time, Jon was forced to lock eyes with him. The captain-general's ugly face with his protruding chin and oversized ears looked like a gargoyle. _Were there gargoyles pulling faces and mocking me from the roofs of the Sept, as I climbed the stairs where Robert waited for me?_

"Tywin Lannister is no fool," Jon answered, "he would never tried to kill Robert himself, as if battles were single combats. I lost because I was too damn proud."

"Is that all?" Toyne asked, his voice exuding irony.

Jon frowned.

"I'll tell you what Lord Tywin would have done, then. He would never have entered Stoney Sept, nor searched the houses, nor questioned the inhabitants, like you did. Nothing of this ever interested him."

"May I ask what makes you believe he would never have searched the houses and taverns?" Jon asked, losing his temper.

"_The Rains of Castamere_."

"_The Rains of Castamere_! How can you base your reasoning on a song?"

"Sometimes, songs tell us the truth," Toyne retorted. "Did you ever notice that many songs come from battles and feats of arms?"

"What happened in Castamere is not a feat of arms. It was a slaughter."

"Precisely, Connington. Lord Tywin acquired a certain experience in slaughters. That's why he would have stayed outside of Stoney Sept. I'm not even sure he would have tried to negotiate with the inhabitants. He would have ordered to burn the city down."

He stopped for a while, observing Jon's reaction. The exile wiped his forehead again, wondering if the hot weather and the spicy Myrish cuisine were the only reasons why he was bathed in sweat.

"The day you crossed the gates of Stoney Sept, you were just as determined as anyone else to catch Robert Baratheon and to kill him," Toyne explained. "But you would never lower yourself to butcher an entire city. That's the main difference between Tywin Lannister and you. Somehow, you're a victim of the noble education your lord father gave you. And so is Rhaegar. If he had stayed behind his troops at the Trident, he'd still be alive. But he was a prince, and when he saw that Robert wanted to face him in single combat, he didn't dare to refuse."

Jon's eyes fell on his lap.

"Do you know what this war you call the War of the Usurper is?" he added. "It's the victory of pragmatism against the traditional education lordlings receive. Who won? A philanderer who hid himself in the brothel of Stoney Sept and a man who betrayed his king and decided to sack the capital. Your values are at odds with theirs. I asked you to prepare our counterattack against the elephants for one reason: I wondered what you would do in such a situation, if you could forget what you learned about strategy and warfare in Westeros. You succeeded. You're learning to put aside your noble education and the old habits that made you lose the Battle of the Bells. What was it about, today? Craftiness, dissimulation... You waited for the elephants with the lancers and only stroke when it was necessary. Exile is an education, Connington. Not the kind of education you yearn for, of course, but it will give you what you need to get back to Westeros, someday."


End file.
